


Forever After Days

by comatosecombat



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Character Study, Drama & Romance, Dreams, Gold Sickness, M/M, Recovery, Self-Worth Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, The Shire, travelling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 05:25:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3435137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comatosecombat/pseuds/comatosecombat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin survives the battle, only to discover that the gold-sickness hasn’t completely released him from its hold. In the end, only one option remains: he must leave Erebor. Bilbo provides an unexpected solution.</p>
<p>Or: the fic where they travel back to the Shire, while Thorin tries to sort through his many issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My thoughts about Thorin’s death can summed up by Fury’s words in the Avengers; I realize that both Tolkien and PJ made that decision, but given that it’s a stupid-ass decision, I’ve elected to ignore it. The same goes for Fíli and Kíli. Still, it doesn’t mean that I’m willing to let them have it easy. This fic seems to be the proof of that.
> 
> (Since there will be some discussion about the nature of the gold-sickness, please note that my personal interpretation tends to lean towards it being a curse and/or a magic malady, rather than any sort of actual mental illness.)
> 
> Some lines are written either in Khuzdul or Sindar – if you hover your cursor above them, a translation should appear. I've also included them at the end, just to be sure.

 

It had been nighttime when Thorin was born, and in the hours that followed the old infirmary’s ceiling had been littered with glow worms. It was his first hazy memory: the warmth of his mother’s breast against his cheek and the image of the cavernous hall above, dotted with tiny lights, beaming resiliently despite the hungry darkness around them. Every time one light went out, there had been two to take its place. Such had been his first hours on this earth: finding life even in complete darkness.

Since his life had once started that way, it now feels odd for him to die under the clear skies. The hilltop is basking in such a magnificent light that even with his failing senses, Thorin is able to both see and hear the victorious arrival of the eagles. They glide past the sun in orderly formation and he watches them as they go by, almost envying the effortless ease they carry themselves aloft. His own body grows heavier by the minute, making him feel as if it is him who’s lying at the bottom of the Long Lake instead of Smaug, the huge birds sailing over like the shapes of boats.

Thorin isn’t the only one to notice the unexpected reinforcements. From his place crouched beside him, Bilbo is abruptly raising his chin, staring at the sky in disbelief equal to Thorin's own, had he still possessed the strength to show it. Thorin can’t quite believe that Bilbo is actually there in the flesh and not a mere figment of his wishful imagination. _I wish I could have seen him_ , he remembered thinking, just as he finally collapsed in the snow - _one last time._

And just as unexpectedly as he had done all those times before, appearing in that peculiar way of his that made it seem like he simply cut a tear in the canvas of the universe and slipped through - Bilbo had come.

As Bilbo watches the birds, Thorin keeps watching him; miraculously unharmed, his head haloed by the sun, he’s everything Thorin could hope for from a comforting sight. It makes him grieve the loss, when his mauled body gives an involuntary twitch, drawing Bilbo’s worried attention back to him once more.

Since he has lost the feeling in his limbs quite some time ago, Thorin is surprised to see his right hand rising as if by on its own account. Bilbo hurries to clasp it, clinging on to it so tightly that despite the numbness and the clove he is wearing, the touch is unmistakable. As long as he can feel it, Thorin knows, he still has time.

A peaceful death is not something he has ever expected to have, nor is he in any way prepared for the rare chance to say his goodbyes. Death has never blessed his line with time when it comes to moments like these. Everyone he has ever loved and then ultimately lost had been taken suddenly; his grandfather, his brother and Dís’s Víli at Azanulbizar; even his father, disappearing into the charge, never to be seen again. Now there is only a dull ache where Thorin could have sworn his heart once dwelled and the hollow pain begs to remind him that if anything, the list has only grown since - but it is as if his mind feels ready to fight till his very last breath instead of recalling the cause for its sudden absence, so for the time being, he lets it go.

He focuses on scraping together a handful of words for Bilbo instead. It is a fool’s errant, since Thorin knows that nothing he has to say will ever suffice, nor can any apology undo his numerous mistakes. In addition to that, there is now a bundle of feelings he doesn’t yet have a name for and not enough time left to figure them out. But the nature of them is such that - as much as he hates to inflict Bilbo even more suffering - it makes Thorin selfishly glad that out of all possible people, it’s actually Bilbo who is with him at his final moments.

Thorin knows it’s wrong to make him witness this, so he tries to make his words sound as comforting as Bilbo’s presence is to him. He hardly knows what he is saying, but he soon finds out that when his mind fails to find the words, his heart carries on for him.

In the end, there is only the essential left – his dying wish granted, even if he in no way deserves it.

“Farewell,” Thorin tells him. “Master Burglar.”

Until now, Bilbo’s manner has been almost complying, as he hovers between clear denial and forced cheerfulness. But as he hears the words, his brows fall into a hard line as he seizes the front of his armor. ”No, _no_ – _don’t you dare!”_ Thorin sees him craning his neck, casting a desperate look around. “Help! Somebody – _anybody_ – help!”

Far above them, the eagles are swarming back and forth between the hilltop and the battlefield below. Just before he closes his eyes for good, Thorin sees how one of the massive shapes separates from the others, as it begins to circle downwards.

 

* * *

 

It feels much more like a vision than the ordinary type of dream.

In it, Thorin finds himself standing at the gate of Bilbo’s garden. The gate is closed and somehow he already knows that he doesn’t have the means to open it.

At the far side of the garden, with his back turned to him, Bilbo is crouched beside a small patch of dirt, digging the ground with his bare hands. Even from the distance, Thorin can see that he has soil under his fingernails as he lifts something he just uncovered into the light, cradling the small object gently on his palm like a wounded bird. It is not until Bilbo pokes it with his finger that Thorin recognizes it as the acorn he picked from Beorn’s garden.

On the surface there seems to be nothing wrong with it. Yet there is no sapling growing from it, and when Bilbo experimentally pinches it between his fingers, it caves in on itself and turns to mush.

Suddenly, the revelation strikes.

 _It was never meant to be,_ Thorin understands. _It was rotten all along._

Slowly, Bilbo lets the spoiled seed fall from his hand - and in that instant, something pulls Thorin back into wakefulness.

 

* * *

 

When Thorin fully comes to, everything around him is dark.  Whereas he would normally find a level of familiarity in it, now the sudden contrast is enough to throw him off; the whiteness of the icy hilltop is still embedded to his eyes as if it has been branded into his very mind, and now with all the light gone, he’s left disorientated and shivering. As he cranes his neck slowly from one side to another, the splitting, aching sort of pain he feels near his right temple makes it especially hard to grasp any sort of clear understanding of his current surroundings. His vision on that side is equally blurry, his eye itching with something grainy.

He’s lying in a tomb. The notion strikes seemingly out of nowhere, but once he has thought of it, the feeling becomes impossible to shake off. There is no sound to be found in the hush of the unfamiliar room and not a single soul is present besides him, if he can still be called as such. Even if some part of his mind is still rebelling against the idea of being dead, it now seems like the only plausible explanation.

But if he truly has arrived at his Maker’s Halls, then what now? Is he expected to simply stay here in waiting until the world is made anew – or, Thorin thinks with a sinking feeling inside his chest - is this to be taken as some form of punishment? Is this joyless pit of despair to be his cell, where he has to contemplate the price of his greed for all eternity - where he will be forced to remember time and time again everything and _everyone_ he had been willing to sacrifice for its sake…

_Fíli._

It's like a specific corner of his mind has been separated by a veil and that same veil that just got pulled violently aside; as quickly as the name comes back to him, so does the rest of the memory resurface as well. Bile crawls up Thorin’s throat and he staggers to sit, suddenly under so much agony that it renders him unresponsive to the physical pain that flares near his chest. If Fíli is here – _Mahal_ forbid if they _both_ are somehow here - then he should find them, to beg for their forgiveness, to see if he can still –

“So,” speaks a booming voice from his left, making him jolt. “You’re awake, then.”

With the sound of the voice now acting as his anchor point, Thorin is able to see that the room isn’t as dark as he initially thought it to be, nor as empty. A small light, something he first takes to be but a product of his mind – a ghost of a memory of the glow worms - flickers first and then grows stronger, when the candle’s wick catches flame.

At first, Thorin can’t believe what he sees in the light of it; for how can he be here, even if he, too, had perished in the battle. But as the figure stands up from its post and slowly draws nearer, it becomes clear that Thorin's eyes had not been lying.

 _“Tharkûn.”_ Only when he hears the word spoken aloud, uttered with a hoarse voice, Thorin notices his mistake. Switching over to the common tongue, he croaks, “Gandalf. What happened to you? How are you here?”

“And where precisely do you think we are, I wonder?” he asks in return.

Even in his current state Thorin can feel the sudden irritation lifting its ugly head inside him – cursed wizards and their sheer inability to give a straight answer. “I would have guessed that we are in _Mahal_ ’s company once more,” he says slowly, “but I wasn’t made aware that wizards were also welcome in his Halls – or poor imitations of kings for that matter.”

Gandalf regards him silently for a moment, his face expressionless except for the deep lines that have been born from years of worrying and mingling alike. But when the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes next crinkle, they do so for the sake of a small smile. “I have no doubt in my mind that when the time finally comes, the Halls of your ancestors will welcome you with nothing but fervor. However, this might not yet be that day.”

Thorin still can’t quite understand what he’s saying to him. Everything hurts too much and not all of the pain is of the physical sort. He opens his mouth so speak, if only to ask whether the Wizard is simply some taunt that has taken a human shape, sent there to torment him with false hope.

But before he’s able to voice his doubt, another tall figure rushes forth from the darkness. “By Eru’s beard, Gandalf - it worked!” As he speaks, the Wizard Radagast peers at him in clear delight, his face now hovering closer than Thorin would actually prefer. “I wasn’t all that sure it would, given that he’s certainly much larger than Sebastian, if not less prickly…”

“Sebastian?” Thorin becomes more profoundly confused by every passing moment. Surely Gandalf is fit to act as his tormentor, but as it is, he holds no ill will against the other wizard.

“A hedgehog, if I’m not entirely mistaken.” As if he’s looking for confirmation in a highly specific matter, Gandalf glances in Radagast’s direction. When the other wizard hums encouragingly, he nods to himself, before finally turning back to address Thorin.  “Radagast and I do have some skill when it comes to treating wounds that are beyond the abilities of others, but as for how you are still with us, I must confess that your own stubbornness might have had a crucial part in it.”

“Or the stubbornness of others,” Radagast adds in a low chuckle.

Since Thorin knows how little he prefers to be corrected, he’s surprised to see Gandalf granting his friend a small smile. “Perhaps that as well, yes.”

“I’m alive?”

“Indeed. A little worse on the wear and currently running a fever, but given the circumstances that's hardly nothing. I have no doubt in my mind that very soon you’ll be back on your feet.”

As improbable as it still seems, Thorin is slowly beginning to accept that they are telling him the truth. The pain harnessing his every limb is too palpable to be of the imaginary sort, and when he weakly lifts his hand to brush his forehead, it burns to the touch. When he looks around the room once more, he thinks it is entirely possible that he’s currently residing in the same infirmary where he was once born. The bare stone bed he’s laying on has been covered with hastily thrown quilts and furs, and when he lifts the collar of the unfamiliar shirt he now has on him, he finds that someone has draped his chest in clean bandages.

He had survived. When Thorin meets Gandalf’s eyes once more, he’s obviously beaming at the fact. Even Radagast, a mere stranger to him, seems relieved beyond measure. Witnessing their joy on his behalf, Thorin feels the sudden need to bury all three of them alive in that very chamber.

“Why?” he manages to gnarl. At his words, the light fades from the wizards’ eyes, their bushy brows frowning in unison. “Why did you waste your powers on me?”

Now is Gandalf’s turn to be confused. “Waste?” he echoes. “This was a kindness, Thorin. We were only trying to help.”

“ _’Help’_?” The corners of Thorin's lips pull into a painful sneer. “Don’t you see that what you have done to me is worse than anything I could have ever imagined? I made my mistakes and I would have gladly accepted my fate. Now, I’m left to live with the knowledge that others had to pay for them with their blood!”

A new wave of pain blinds his vision for a moment. When he can see Gandalf’s face clearly once more, the Wizard’s features have melted into a disappointed scowl. “I see. Well, I’m sorry to hear that you feel that way, and I’m certain that others do as well. Bilbo was naturally quite worried, and the boys –“

 _Boys._ Once Thorin hears the word, he registers nothing else of the Wizard’s rambling. So it was just as he had dreaded, he thinks blankly – they are both gone.

“Tell me,” he hears himself say, his voice flat. “Has someone at least carried them back to the Mountain? Or is that beyond the reach of your so-called miracles?”

“Certainly not!” Gandalf bristles at once. “What do you take me for, Thorin? Or do you honestly think I wouldn’t search for them the moment I got the chance?”

Until then, Radagast has followed their exchange with a bewildered look. But now something like understanding flashes in his eyes and he hurries to tug at his companion’s sleeve. “Gandalf, I don’t think he knows!”

On his part, Gandalf only frowns in irritation. “Knows what?”

“That we’re alive.”

Three heads, Thorin’s own included, turn to the door.

Fíli and Kíli stand at the darkened doorway, leaning on each other like they have always done. Fíli has his hand thrown across Kíli’s shoulders like he’s careful not to put too much weight on his other foot, while Kíli has his hand draped around his brother’s waist to support him. The braids of Fíli’s moustache have become undone, wisps of blond hair brushing against his bloodied lips, and Kíli’s hair is a wreck.  The longer Thorin keeps staring at them the more he finds these kind of new details to focus on, as if a part of him needs to prove that his mind simply can’t have come up with all of them on its own; as if the sight of their missing clasps and ruined braids is evidence enough to make them real instead of ghosts.

It's starting to feel like Thorin is actually seeing them for the first time since they parted in Lake-town. In the time between, he hadn’t gotten them back, not really. Before just now, he thought he never would.

Kíli is the first to understand what is needed of them now, as he hurries to say, “We’re alright, honestly! See -”

He nudges at Fíli and together they hobble over. Once they are finally close enough, Thorin slowly reaches out to touch them; he runs his hands across their arms, their shoulders, their cheeks. Finally he places both of his trembling palms flat against their chests, feeling the victorious thundering of twin hearts beneath and can’t quite separate the one from the other.

They beam at him with weary but rascal-like smiles, a reminiscent from their childhood. They are both so very alive, and Thorin still doesn’t think he deserves any of it.

“It can’t be.” Thorin turns to Fíli, still recalling the sense of utter helplessness and humiliation, as he had watched him trash in Azog’s grip. “I saw you fall –“

“- and it broke my leg and knocked me out. I only woke up when Kíli and Tauriel found me.”

Perhaps his eye is to blame yet again, because it has taken Thorin until now to notice the Elf. He rather suspects that she has been present this whole time, hovering a few steps behind his nephews’ backs in the manner of a spooked dove. Even in the gloom, Thorin can see that she has splashes of orc-blood caked on her ethereal face, like tar on marble. As he tries to recall her name, Thorin remembers distantly that Kíli might have mentioned it as a part of the tale of how he came to survive the poisoned Morgul-arrow.

Even if she is a healer, for the life of him, Thorin can’t think why anyone would deem it wise to let him see her here at this moment.

The fact that Thorin's hand finally slips away from his cheek is enough to alert Kíli of his change of mood. “She saved us all countless times in Lake-town!” he argues instantly. “Without her I wouldn’t have survived the poisoning, let alone the battle!”

“She and Legolas came to help us at the Hill when they learned we were in danger,” Fíli concurs in turn. “It was Tauriel who told him to shoot that arrow at Azog.”

All Thorin can remember is that there had been a spray of blood. But whose exactly, if not Fíli’s? He wrecks his brain for the truth and after much difficulty, the actual memory comes to him; the unexpected arrow, piercing Azog's hand just as he was about to rail his sword through Fíli, providing enough a distraction for him to wiggle loose from the pale orc's grip – and then fall. It hadn’t seemed possible to survive such a drop, not when it was always Kíli who was in habit of tumbling down from trees and rooftops, landing each and every time on his feet, nimble as a cat.

Kíli still appears agitated, no doubt ready to defend the Elf at moment's notice, but in the end it’s actually Fíli who places himself between the bed and Tauriel. He fixes Thorin with a hard look as he says, his voice only audible for the four of them to hear, “Don’t even think about sending her away. If she goes, we go.”

Over his shoulder, Thorin can see that Kíli’s eyes have turned bright. At some point the Elf has placed her hand protectively on his arm and now she does the same for Fíli, squeezing it just barely.

Thorin doesn’t say it, but he knows that right now, he would grant them anything they thought to ask, let it be the Seven Rings or the very breath from his lungs. He can let them have this, even if having one of her kind inside Erebor’s walls still feels like a betrayal of sorts. In any case, Thorin suddenly finds himself far too exhausted to argue. By the time Balin and Dwalin come rushing in as well, the rest of the Company following at their heels, he has to focus hard on getting even the simplest of confirmations out of his mouth.

 _Yes_ , Thorin half-convinces, half-lies to Balin, while he tries his best not to focus too hard on his red-rimmed eyes; he’s fine now. _No, no, you did the right thing_ , he assures Dwalin, shocked that he should even question it in the first place, _staying and defending Bilbo._

One by one, people keep piling in in order to see him well, until the room is so crammed that it becomes hard to breath. The second time Thorin tries to violently cough up his lungs Óin begins to usher them back out, claiming that he needs to rest. With a hollow smile Thorin watches them go, cherishing the fact that at least he didn’t see to lose any of them, even if it means ignoring the simultaneous feeling of something still missing.  

Óin then moves on to forgo a full examination of his injuries. Thorin hisses when he pulls aside the bandages draped around his torso and that is how he learns of the gaping wound he has on his chest, courtesy of Azog’s blade. When he complains about his eyes he gets offered a wet rag soaked in herbs, and while it doesn’t remove the blurriness completely, it at least takes care of the itch. Óin sounds optimistic when he predicts that in time he might yet gain back his full vision.

“Once this heals, Dwalin will no doubt be cross at you,” Óin says, softly tapping the edge of the scrape on Thorin's temple. “You know how proud he is of that scar of his and now you have one to match.”

When he finally prepares to leave as well, Thorin makes sure to thank him for his excessive care, even if he still doesn’t quite see the point of it.

 

 

Long after the room has quieted down, and only Óin can occasionally be heard passing in the hallway, Thorin is finally about to give into exhaustion when a soft rustling catches his attention. He keeps his eyes shut for a moment more, so when he finally opens them he finds Bilbo already sitting in Gandalf’s vacated chair, like he once again materialized out of thin air.

The first thing Thorin notices is that somewhere between then and now, someone has given him a new jacket. This one’s dark ochre in color, the shade of harvest moons. When he tries to recall what might have happened to the old one, he’s surprised to realize that most likely it was too covered in his blood to be salvable. The idea of Bilbo still wandering around in it hours afterwards makes something churn deep in his gut.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Bilbo hurries to explain, once he notices that Thorin's eyes are open. “They told me that you were finally awake and I… I guess I just wanted to see it for myself.”

Thorin decides to believe that he’s actually there, and that this isn’t yet another dream. Unexpectedly his tongue feels thick in his mouth. “I’m sorry if I caused you distress.”

A peal of strangled laughter escapes Bilbo’s lips. “’Distress’?” he repeats, a little hysterically. He doesn’t look all that amused anymore. “Thorin, I thought you were _going to die_ out there! So yes, color me _distressed._ ”

Thorin doesn’t know how they have managed to reach a point where it seems like every sentence he wishes to speak to Bilbo starts with ‘I’m sorry’. The fever is catching on and he finds it hard to focus on anything else but the soft curl of Bilbo’s mouth. It still holds true what he thought earlier; that if it had been the last thing he ever saw, then he would have died a happy man.  Now, he has to live long enough to see it turn into a grimace because of something he did.

“There is no reason why you should have stayed,” Thorin says, nearly stumbling on the words. He means for the battle; he means _not_ _after the way I acted._  “Not after everything.”

Bilbo looks caught off-guard, his mouth already opening in what Thorin suspects is yet another argument – but it never comes. Instead those lips of his pull into a tense line, and he turns his face away when he says, “Well, I guess I’ll be off soon enough.”

There is a slight possibility here that they might be talking about two different things. But before Thorin can even begin to sort that out in his jumbled head, Bilbo is already rising from his chair, his feet clearly in a hurry to whisk him elsewhere. Thorin reacts instinctively and catches him by the elbow before he goes.

Bilbo looks up from the hand to meet his eyes, his face a canvass of confusion, and once again words fail him. “Stay safe,” Thorin pleads, and desperately wishes he could do more than just ask.

Bilbo seems ready to simply laugh it off, but Thorin thinks that something about the look in his eyes makes him sober up. “We won the war. I hardly think there’s anything to worry about anymore. And besides,” Bilbo says, while tugging aside the collar of his jacket to show him what’s hidden underneath, “as memory recalls, a certain _someone_ insisted that I should wear armor as well. It might have come in handy, if only the rock that knocked me out wasn’t aimed at my head.”

When he says nothing for the longest of time, Bilbo’s face eventually softens. “I meant that as a joke, Thorin.”

Thorin wants to argue that he hardly considers his safety a laughing matter, and if anything, Bilbo just pointed out his continued inability to protect him. After the Arkenstone, the _mithril_ shirt was the most valuable thing in the Mountain – and it still wasn’t good enough. While Thorin doesn’t doubt the skill of his ancestors for once second, he has no such trust in himself. He nearly asks Bilbo to hand the gift back then and there, so that he could hide it in the treasury with the rest of the finery, cursed as they have become by his touch.

“Thorin?”

Shaking his head, Thorin forcibly tears his eyes away from the mail shirt and meets Bilbo’s eyes. “I’m tired. I think it is best if you go now.”

 

 

When Bilbo does leave, his shoulders squared and his jaw clenched tight, only Thorin’s damaged right eye keeps track of him; his blurry shape fleets from the room like a will-o’-the-wisp, the memory of his golden jacket still remaining in Thorin’s mind long after he’s gone.

 

* * *

 

When Thorin stirs for the second time, it is with the pressing sense that there is somewhere he desperately needs to be.

Since he’s currently so deep within the Mountain, there is no way to tell precisely what time of the day it is – but judging by his esteem it can’t be more than few hours since he last awoke.

Luckily Óin is nowhere to be seen, so he isn’t there to stop Thorin as he staggers up from his bed with considerable effort. He’s distantly aware that his body protests against the idea of moving, but he hardly pays great attention to it in his need to head out of the room.

Just as he had initially expected, he had been brought down to the old infirmary. As he makes his way through the musty corridors and finally up a pair of stairs that lead towards the more central parts of palace, he has to keep himself from stumbling on his own feet. His vision swims and plays tricks on him; perhaps it has more to do with his temperature than anything else, when the great torches on the walls turn into tiny clouds of fire, seeking to lure him into their scorching embrace. Thorin drags his resisting body onwards, until he finally turns a familiar corner, and finds himself standing ankle-deep in gold.

Before now he hadn’t even been aware where his feet were taking him, even if at the same time the prospect of any other destination had seemed impossible. The minute his feet touch the coins, his mind feels at peace.

While Thorin allows his weary gaze to rest on the riches stretched ahead, sudden pride begins to swells inside his chest. He thinks how multiple armies had tried to take it from him, only for all of them to fail, as the might of Erebor had crushed them like they were nothing more but tides breaking against the mountainside. Thorin has long since know that his role was to act as a bedrock to his people, and hadn’t he proved to be precisely that, keeping safe this part of their legacy that now rests at his feet.

With that in mind, he slowly crouches down until he’s resting on his knees in the treasure, and then extends his hand to run it gently across the coins. Little to his left lies a golden picture frame, decorated with tiny jewels, and unexpectedly it serves to remind Thorin of the Company’s only night in Lake-town, when he had overheard Bofur trying to explain the true significance of gold to Bilbo.

 

_It had taken him some time to find a suitable comparison, but once he had, Bofur seemed quite pleased by it. “It’s a little like this,” he started gravely. “Imagine you have a painting that you’re quite fond of.”_

_“That doesn’t call for much imagination,” Bilbo countered, chuckling. “I’m sure you don’t remember it, but on my parlor’s mantelpiece I have such pictures of my parents. I think they originally received them as a wedding gift.”_

_Bofur nodded. “There you go, then. Now, imagine that – in addition to those pictures being precious to you – someone you knew and cared about actually made them. That he or she painted each stroke with care, and the result of all that hard work is hung there, on your very wall. Knowing that, wouldn’t you say that it would be considerably harder for you to part with such a piece than it already is now?”_

_Thorin had watched as understanding colored Bilbo’s face. Blinking, he stammered, “But surely dwarves don’t feel like that about every single coin you happen to come across?”_

_“Well, no,” Bofur had admitted after a moment. “But then again, not every scribble is a masterpiece, is it?”_

 

But for him, Thorin understands now, they are. Every tarnished coin, every uncut diamond still waiting for their time to bloom, armors long since rusted shut – they are all that masterpiece. All the rubies are cousins to those he remembers his mother once braiding in her hair; all the pearls resembling crystallized tears, shed by those that lay dead because of Smaug. He now knows without a doubt that if it should come to it yet again, he would be ready to wage war for the sake of a single brass coin.

What he feels in this moment is pure worship, transcending something as petty as mere greed.

Just then, he feels something relatively soft give away under his boot. It makes a curious cracking sound as it does and more than anything it’s the noise that makes Thorin glance down, almost in passing. But what he sees roots him to the spot.

There, peaking between coins like a coy flower reaching towards the light, is a bony hand, its fingers now crushed to dust by his foot. Only little to its right is another, and now – when he knows to search for them – Thorin suddenly sees them everywhere he looks, charred skeletons curled in on themselves in waiting of a fiery death, this great graveyard hidden in plain sight; a river of blood coated with silver and gemstones.

He backs away from the sight in horror, his feet slipping in his haste and sending him crashing in the gold. He keeps on crawling backwards until his palms meet stone, and only then he staggers to stand and flees into the nearest hall.

As it is, he nearly slams straight into someone as he rounds the first corner.

“What on earth is the matter, Thorin?” Gandalf asks. When Thorin’s first animalistic instinct is to shy away from him as well, Gandalf reaches out to brace both of his broad palms against his shoulders. “There’s nothing chasing you, if that’s what you fear.”

“That is where you’re wrong,” Thorin pants, barely recognizing his own voice. “As long as I remain in this Mountain, there’s always something chasing me. I was a fool to believe otherwise.”

The Wizard bends down to look deep into his eyes, his gaze searching while Thorin forces himself to stay still and bear his scrutiny. Eventually Gandalf seems to finds what he was looking for, since in the next moment he straightens his spine with a weary sort of resignation. “Ah. I can’t say that I wasn’t afraid this might happen.”

“Can you not lift it from me?”

Thorin already knows the answer before Gandalf shakes his head ruefully. “You dwarves are a remarkable folk, in both good and bad. What ails you is far older and powerful than us Wizards, and very resilient.”

“So this is it?” Thorin says, his desperation growing by the minute. “Are you saying that I’m doomed to my grandfather’s fate?”

Something in Gandalf’s expression softens considerably. “I want you to know that it was never my intention to cause you this kind of pain,” he murmurs, his manner clearly meant as sympathetic. “I’m aware that you watched as Thrór slowly fell under the same sickness; I only dared to suggest that you take back your home because I truly believed you to be unaffected by it.”

“But now that it has happened, you have no means to cure me?”

“I’m afraid not.”

In that moment Thorin utterly and completely despises every single part of his own bruised body, from the gaping hole in his chest to his marked forehead, and down to the very marrow of his bones. “Then I have nothing left,” he whispers.

“As bleak as it may seem now, I would advise you to remember that you still got to keep your life. Not many who fought in the battle can still say the same,” Gandalf points out, not unkindly, but firmly enough to make his opinion known.

It hurts Thorin worse than any sort of clear accusation. “Do you call this living?! Being a willing slave to a dragon’s hoard, polishing diamonds that might as well be headstones!” One of the Wizard’s hands still rests on his shoulder and he knocks it away, the force of it setting his chest aflame. Angry tears threaten to fill his vision. “Do you not see that I would rather count myself among the dead than endure this cursed existence?!”

His own fury and horror choke him. A wave of fresh pain, far more noticeable than any before, washes over him and it nearly makes him loose his footing.

Gandalf reaches out just in time to prevent it, his hand firmly resuming its previous position.

“Dark nights tend to brings dark thoughts. Everything will seem brighter in the morning, you just wait and see.” He tries to tug him gently along, but Thorin doesn’t move. Noticing his stricken expression Gandalf suggests, still far too kindly than Thorin would prefer, “Come now, let us get you back to bed.”

Eventually Thorin allows himself to be led, if only to make sure that he keeps away from the treasury behind him.

 

 

Back in his bed, Thorin stays awake for a long time and stares at the dark ceiling above with hollow eyes. This time there are no glow worms to be found there, and it might as well be a mirror he’s looking into, the way he can’t find any signs of life.

The firm resolution finally comes to him in the odd hours of the morning. After, he can find it in himself to sleep for a few hours, and only when he does, that part of his mind that constantly dreams of gold rests as well.

 

* * *

 

The long night is finally starting to make way for the new day. This time of the year sunrise happens late, and as Thorin watches dawn breaking over the horizon, he finds himself wondering whether from now on he will be doomed to see only this: the first light of the rising sun turning the surface of the Long Lake tauntingly golden, and the sky above it, painfully crimson as if it’s alight with great flames. Perhaps there might yet come a day when he can witness sights like these without making such comparisons, but at that moment it feels impossible to even imagine.

Next to him Fíli is silent, his eyes taking in the same view. The door of the hidden entrance remains ajar behind their backs, as they are both sprawled rather ungracefully on the outcropping beside it; Thorin had foolishly asked Fíli to join him up here before his tired mind had had the chance to recall his nephew's ruined leg. But at that point there was no stopping Fíli, not even when Dwalin had all but carried him up most of the stairs along the way. Dwalin had even supported him more than Thorin really cared to admit, all the while muttering under his breath something about royal stubbornness.

When asked for an explanation, Thorin had said that the fresh air helped him to keep his mind clear, but truthfully his willingness to have this particular discussion at this very spot is due to more sentimental reasons.  The location of the hidden door was a secret that had been passed on from Thrór to Thráin, from one king to another, and by Gandalf’s doing it had finally come to him as well. For the very talk they are about to have, this seemed like the place to do it.

Eventually, Fíli is the first to break the silence.

“I don’t understand,” he complains in a distraught manner. “Why is it that lately you always make me choose between you and my brother?”

Since his face betrays no great emotion, Thorin is surprised to discover how upset he actually sounds. As he turns to face him properly and Fíli does the same, Thorin's met with a pair of angry eyes, the very same he remembers coming across in Lake-town when he had tried to separate him from Kíli. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” Fíli continues. “You brought me here to tell me that you’re leaving.”

Thorin forces down a heavy swallow. “Yes.” There is no point in denying it.

“But why?” Now the betrayal in his nephew’s voice is already making way for raw desperation. “There’s nothing for you to be ashamed of, and even if there was, we forgive you – we _all_ forgive you. I’m sure even Bilbo –“

“This decision has nothing to do with my feelings,” Thorin snaps, more forcefully than he had originally intended. In the brief silence that follows, he looks away and takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm down once more.

After a moment it’s Fíli who continues, this time also in a more controlled fashion. “It still seems to me like you’re taking the blame,” he demurs. “You think that if you relinquish the throne, the men and elves are more willing to reconsider forming an alliance with Erebor in the future.”

“Did Balin tell you that?” Thorin asks, unable to hide his shock.

“You know that he would rather cut off his beard and shave himself bald than speak a word against you,” Fíli scoffs. “No, believe it or not, I actually figured as much myself.”

He’s right, of course. Thorin knows that both of his nephews had helped Bard’s children to safety under Smaug’s attack and for that, the man certainly owes them. Based on their attitude towards the Silvan captain, they also hold no ill will towards the Mirkwood folk. While he had wallowed in his greed, Fíli and Kíli had managed to forge a base for friendly relations with their neighboring kingdoms.

Fíli shakes him back from those kinds of dark thoughts, when he says, “Ever since we were little, me and Kíli were taught that what’s in this Mountain is our legacy. It was you who made us believe it.” He captures Thorin’s gaze and holds it. “Everything we did - we did it for _you._ You deserve this, Uncle, more than anyone else.”

It is as if something inside Thorin is rabidly becoming undone. He brought Fíli here and expected him to listen without an argument, like he was still that obedient little boy who once watched Thorin with silent awe in his eyes as he gave him his first sword. Now, it feels as if he has to let that same child down by revealing what sort of a travesty he has made of their birthright.

“How can I deserve it, when even now I threaten to doom us all.” Thorin knows he sounds possibly mad, when he whispers, “The gold - it still has me in its claws.”

Fíli’s eyes turn fearful as understanding fills them. “But we thought you were cured!”

Ruefully, Thorin shakes his head. “When I close my eyes, all I see is coins. I have to remind myself to eat and drink and sleep, to forcibly keep myself from stealing back into the furthest treasure chamber imaginable. If I continue to stay in this Mountain, I fear that there might yet come a day when I’m not strong enough resist that urge.”

Twice now he has managed to break free from the spell, but both of those times had only lasted for so long. Eventually his luck will run out and then he will be snared back to that bottomless abyss of his own mind.

Knowing that there is no other way than this, Thorin reaches out to seize Fíli’s shoulder. “You saw what that sickness did to me, what it made me become. But you and Kíli – you are unaffected. This curse has no hold over you. Do you see what I mean?”

Behind Fíli’s head, the great stone statue of Thrór keeps to its tireless watch. Fíli lifts his chin and for a passing moment their profiles aline – but then he leans forward and the similarity is gone, as ill-suited as it was. There is nothing but uncertainty in his voice as he slowly says, “You once told me that the day I was made king, I would understand sacrifice better, even if the one I'd be forced to leave behind was of my own kin.”

Thorin lets out a deep sigh. He thinks that from this point on his memory is forever branded by the image of Fíli, mere moments away from what at the time had seemed like a certain death by Azog’s hand and still urging him and Kíli to safety. “Despite of what I’m asking you now, it was a poor lesson to teach. You have always put others before yourself - _that_ is the sign of a true king.”

For the longest of time neither of them speaks. The sun is fully arisen above the skyline when Fíli finally heaves a sigh of his own. “And what if I don’t feel ready?”

Thorin almost tells him that he certainly didn’t; that after Azanulbizar, when the battling had ceased, he was hardly fit to lead anyone. Since the dead had been so many, they had no means to carry them home and were forced to lay them rest there as best they could. He remembers standing at the brink of the shallow grave of his family and wishing nothing more but to bury himself beside them; but in his hand he still had the piece of wood that had saved his life, a makeshift shield that had already become something short of a title. It was the weight of that shield – a symbol of a promise he suddenly knew he owed to his remaining people – that had made him turn his back to the tombs, even if years later, it still feels like some part of him had lingered behind that day.

But what’s important is that Fíli isn’t him. His spirit isn’t tarnished or bended by countless losses, nor his heart tainted with bitterness. He knows enough about loss to have a healthy respect for it, but he doesn’t court death in the same way as Thorin knows he himself tends to. He’s exactly what Erebor needs now – a new heart, one made of flesh instead of stone. His only regret in the matter is that he can’t stay to witness any of it.

Thorin moves closer to him, making it easier for Fíli as he gently presses their foreheads together.

“You were ready a long time ago,” Thorin murmurs to him. “If anything, it was my mistake for not realizing it sooner.”

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, the Lord of the Iron Hills as well as both sons of Fundin seem to be in the opinion that Thorin has finally lost his mind for good.

When he had returned back to the infirmary (much to Óin’s satisfaction) Thorin had sent for the three of them to be brought there. Dáin had arrived first and after a hearty meeting Thorin had undergone the effort to ask after his soldiers, only to learn that a great number of them were now wounded and twice as many dead. By the time Dwalin had finally returned with Balin in tow, Thorin already felt much surer about his decision.

After he has explained to them what had transpired last night, and what he intends to do about it, a heavy silence follows. Dáin begins to stroke his beard anxiously, while the two brothers exchange a look that is positively brimming with unsaid words. As usual, it’s Dwalin who decides to speak his mind first.

“You want to know what I think?” he says, crossing his arms against his chest. “I think this is absolute _caragu_.”

This time even Balin, ever the proper one, seems to agree with brother’s choice of expression. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head, laddie?” he inquires, eying worriedly the scar marring Thorin’s forehead.  “In any case, _if_ what you felt last night was in fact the sickness, then surely it was only a momentarily lapse. Once the fever breaks you’ll feel much better and then we can discuss –“

“If I wait much longer there won’t be a discussion – I’ll be too mad for counsel.“ Thorin turns to Dwalin, forcing out the rest of the words. “Or have you already forgotten how recently it was that I made a threat against your life? “

That clearly manages to catch Dwalin off guard. “You weren’t yourself!” he huffs, almost offended on his behalf.

“No, I wasn’t. And I have no wish to repeat that experience.”

Meanwhile Dáin still holds on to his silence, no doubt listening to everything that has transpired prior to his own arrival. Tales of the gold-sickness are so well-known by their people that this is hardly the first time he comes across mentions of it, and from his composed reaction it is easy to deduce that at some point during the previous day he has also learned about Thorin’s recent succumb to it.

In the meeting between the leaders of the Seven Armies, Dáin had been his only vocal ally, even if he hadn’t dared to finance the quest while Smaug still posed a real threat. But he had sworn to Thorin that – should they find the dragon dead or managed to miraculously kill it – the dwarves of Iron Hills would aid them any way they could. When Thorin had called them for war, he knew he was purposefully extending that goodwill. Part of him had even relinquished the idea that when the battle was won, he and Dáin could finally talk like king to another – or perhaps even as a king to his lord.

But what the accursed sickness had made Thorin forgot, was that Dáin had never seen him as his inferior; not even now, when he had all the right to do so.

In his shame Thorin has dropped his gaze to his lap, so it nearly startles him when Dáin’s hand lands on his unharmed shoulder. “Fíli’s a fine lad and well cut for the job. So he’s still a bit wet behind the ears – so were we both, once upon a time. But Thorin, be honest; did someone put you up to his?” He leans closer, murmuring with an air of confidentiality, “It wasn’t that blasted _Tharkûn_ , was it? He can be kind of a push-over, always has been.”

“Fear not, cousin,” Thorin answers, and for once, finds it in him to smile. “The fate of this kingdom does not lie at the mercy of wizards, nor their whims.”

“How will you know that,” Dwalin drawls darkly under his breath, sly as a fox, “seeing as you plan to leave?”

Apparently Balin all but agrees, since he’s now shaking his head. Thorin seeks out his gaze in turn. “Before we even entered the Mountain you were the first to warn me about my grandfather’s fate. If only I had listened then, it would have saved us all from a world of grief.”

Balin closes his eyes, a long-suffering expression well known to Thorin from all those times his temper had gotten the better of him in some official delegation. But as uncalled for as many of his outbursts had been, more often than not Balin actually agreed with the sentiment behind them.  That is how Thorin already knows to expect it when the shoulders beneath the red tunic finally slump.

“Fine,” Balin sighs. “Let us presume for a moment that you decide to abdicate and then leave. Where do you plan to go?”

“Back at the Blue Mountains,” Thorin answers immediately. “Where else?”

Dwalin lets out an exasperated grunt. “And tell them what, exactly? That you reclaimed your throne, but were too dainty to actually sit on it?” Then, because he’s still the same person that once carried Frerin’s body away from the battlefield when it became apparent that Thorin couldn’t, and who fought by his side not long after he threatened to kill him, “If you think that I’m going to let you drag yourself back there with your tail between your legs, then you have another thing coming. It’ll be the death of you!”

Thorin knows he should argue the point, but at the moment he doesn’t like the idea of deceiving them any more than he already has. “Then what do you suggest?”

Asking doesn’t chance the fact how pointless the question really is. The Blue Mountains or the Iron Hills - which one of the Seven Kingdoms he chooses for his self-imposed exile is a moot point, because in the end, it still makes him this: a crownless refugee, burned to a cinder by his legacy.

But before any of the three of them has the time to answer, a fourth voice behind Thorin's back calls out, “You _could_ alwayscome with me instead.”

Turning slowly around, Thorin has the time to wonder whether their Burglar’s ability to take him by surprise will never cease to amaze him. Ever since that day in Mirkwood when Bilbo had first appeared before his cell dangling the stolen keys, some part of Thorin has trusted him to find a solution to every problem – and so far Bilbo has, even if that solution hasn’t always been to Thorin’s liking.

“In case anyone has forgotten, I actually do own a house.” Bilbo rocks back and forth on his feet, a nervous sort of dance. Even as he speaks, he doesn’t quite meet Thorin’s eyes. “I know it isn’t much, but if you’re in need of a place to stay, Bag End is at your disposal – that is, until you get better of course.”

“Perfect!” Bilbo visibly startles when Gandalf all but leaps out behind a nearby pillar, just in time to clap him affectionately on the shoulder. From the way he complitely ignores Thorin’s opinion, it’s instantly apparent that he gets no say in the matter whatsoever. “I think that settles it. I’ll go and get the travelling arrangements started.”

“You plan to travel with us?” Bilbo asks, clearly relieved. That is, before his eyes narrow to slits. “For the whole length of the journey?”

The Wizard huffs in affronted manner, as if he refuses to acknowledge that it was only recently when he weaseled himself out of a bargain just shy of Mirkwood. But under Bilbo’s scrutiny, he eventually succumbs. “Yes, yes, I suppose I owe you as much.  Radagast has already left since he has his own duties to attend, but I think I can spare the time for a more leisured journeying. But we need to get going as soon as possible if we want to avoid the worst of the snow.”

“Surely the path across the mountains is out of the question,” Balin intersects. “If the snow won’t stop you, the goblins will.”

“Yes, I think you’re quite right. But let us worry about that when we come to it,” Gandalf hums, in that enigmatic ways of his that always has Thorin grinding his teeth; based on the looks of everyone else in the room – especially Dáin’s - he isn’t the only one.

Even Bilbo appears worried. Thorin can’t quite say if he’s more dazzled by the vagueness of their travelling plans or Gandalf’s abrupt sanction of what could just as easily have been a mere courtesy; perhaps he didn’t consider that Thorin would really take him up on his offer. Now that Bilbo finds himself saddled with a house guest, his feelings about the matter have become hard to read. Thorin nearly tells him that he is in no way indebted to do this – that no one expects him to accommodate someone who has dishonored him such a spectacular fashion – but before he manages it, Bilbo turns to him and flashes him what at least intends to be a reassuring smile.

“Well,” Bilbo says. “I guess the Shire it is, then.”

The sudden solution still has Thorin reeling, and because of it he can’t quite manage a clear answer. Balin once again saves him from his own incompetence by rushing ahead to shower Bilbo with thanks and declarations of service. Dáin then joins the fray by engaging Bilbo in impromptu conversation about whether they have wild boars near where he lives. That soon turns into a conversation about the local brewage and then, of course – food.

By the time Bilbo is caught up in describing the usual contents of his pantry, Dwalin appears quietly at Thorin’s side.

“At least there’s one bright side to all this sodding mess. The rest of us have to keep tightening our belts for the unseeable future, but as for you…” When Thorin looks at him expectantly, he’s met with a snigger. Something already tells him that whatever follows next, after this the two of them will be even.

And sure enough - “It seems to me, your highness, that you just became a kept dwarf.”

 

* * *

 

“It almost feels like it's missing something.”

It’s two days after and in that time, Gandalf has somehow managed to find them a small two-wheeled cart and a horse fit enough to pull it. Thorin rather suspects that there’s some unhappy fisherman wandering the streets of Dale in search of the animal as they speak, but if so, he doesn’t wish to linger long enough to find out.

Currently he and Bilbo are inspecting the cart, something that had prompted Bilbo to announce his curious observation in the first place.

“And what is that?” Thorin asks.

At the sound of his voice Bilbo startles, as if he hadn’t been actually aware that he spoke aloud earlier. “Really? You don’t do that here?” His words get followed by a nervous huff of laughter. “It’s just a silly tradition we have in the Shire. Sometimes when people move to a new house, their relatives tie old pots and pans in strings and then attach them at the back. I guess hobbits aren’t really as superstitious as dwarves, but we tend to believe that the racket wards off any evil thoughts the movers might find directed their way.”

“So it brings good luck?” Thorin affirms. “To the new house?”

“Well, yes. Among other things.”

Since this is the first time he hears about a hobbit custom that doesn’t have anything do with either food or pipe-weed, Thorin is actually rather interested to know more. But this also marks the first occasion when Bilbo seems almost bothered with the idea of sharing something of the sort and Thorin doesn’t wish to pry, more than aware of the sacred nature of their own dwarvish traditions.

As it is, he decides to turn his attention back towards the cart, eying the cargo that consists of bedrolls, blankets, food and other travelling supplies. Only now he does pay attention to the fact that, besides a handful of weapons and some cooking gear, there isn’t anything else there of the metallic sort. A necessary precaution, Thorin tells himself, but while he’s forced to accept it, it still leaves him feeling like a starved dog slobbering after a slab of meat. “A poor prize indeed,” he mutters.

Bilbo observes him looking at their charge and is quick to catch on as ever. “I’m bringing _you_ with me, aren’t I?”

“It’s like I already said – a poor prize.”

This time Bilbo doesn’t answer immediately. He inspects the nearest wheel, running his thumb across it in search of any welts in the wood and caressing their sharp edges. “That’s not the way I see it,” he finally says in a small voice.

The others appear before Thorin has the time to answer, carrying the rest of their supplies. Only Daín and his remaining men are absent, since his cousin had decided earlier that this moment should be reserved only for the members of the Company.

Before long everyone’s caught up in doing their best impression of pretending that the three of them are simply off to a short holiday: Dori makes sure for the tenth time that Nori remembered to pack everything he was meant to, while Ori distracts Nori from noticing; Bofur and Bifur talk Bilbo into taking an extra blanket with him, while Bombur sneaks some sausages into his backpack; Glóin reminds Thorin to send his letter to his family and Óin already has a list of Hobbiton herbs that might be useful in treating of his wounds.

Only Balin decides to stay well off to the side. Thorin finally manages to convince Óin that he can tell a clover from a fool’s parsley and make his way over to him.

“Everything should be ready, we’re just waiting for Dwalin and the boys.” Just as he speaks, the sound of nearing footsteps catches Balin’s attention and he breaks into a smile. “Ah, here we go then, speak of the devil...”

Even now there is a new sort of dynamic to be found in the way the Company immediately re-arranges themselves. Fíli hardly carries a crown and he certainly isn’t demanding them to make way, but as he arrives he gets given a wide berth and Thorin can see him looking little surprised by it, before he schools his features back into a formal sort of graveness.

Kíli follows a few steps behind his brother, supporting an equally stoic expression. While Thorin hasn’t talked him directly about the sickness, he trusts that Fíli has explained in length why he feels that he must do this.

But out of the three of them it’s Dwalin who comes striding straight to Thorin’s side, dropping a heavy bag at his feet.

“What are you doing?” Thorin hisses.

Dwalin is busy in an attempt to strap a couple of throwing axes in his belt. “What does it bloody look like? I’m coming with you. How do you plan to keep the spiders and those pointy-eared bastards at bay when you can barely stand as it is?”

Thorin is about to snap something back, perhaps to argue that he isn’t completely useless and even if he were, Gandalf can very well keep them safe if necessary. But Dwalin still has trouble with his axe, and in the next instant it slips from his grip and clatters to the floor; but what shocks Thorin more is the fact that Dwalin's hands tremble too hard for him to pick it up.

It’s unlikely that the others have noticed it yet, so Thorin makes the decision to reach down to grab it. While he places the axe carefully back into Dwalin’s hand, he leans his forehead against his and tells him, “I need you to stay here. Help Balin watch over the boys. Keep them safe.”

He hopes that he can convey with his eyes what his words fail to tell: that there is no one else he trusts more when it comes to their safety.

Dwalin doesn’t look happy, but in the end, silent agreement transfers between them. He nods, and Thorin slowly lets go of the axe.

It is then that another clear voice rings out. “I’ll ride with you!”

All eyes turn to Tauriel, who comes striding over the shallow moat as she speaks; through the gate Thorin can see that she has a saddled horse waiting outside. “If you wish to pass through the forest unnoticed, you need my help. I’ll escort you as far as the other side.”

Only Gandalf, who has just arrived on the scene, looks satisfied by the offer. “We _could_ use a guide. I’m afraid my memory isn’t quite what it used to be and the road through Greenwood is particularly tricky, as you all very well know,” he ventures, entirely too innocently to be speaking the whole truth.

“No!” Thorin is quick to declare, just as Kíli’s voice joins his in the choir.

In the stunned silence that follows, Thorin is left to stare at his nephew, who in turn now seems completely blind to his presence as he pushes past him to meet her. As far as the Elf is concerned, he only has eyes for her.

“I only just got you back,” Kíli pleads desperately. “If you think that I’m losing you so soon -”

Tauriel manages to silence him as she suddenly kneels and reaches out to take both of his hands into hers. Thorin can’t be sure, but it seems that she has something cupped in her right palm; Kíli’s eyes widen when he discovers it.

“Do not forget that I was once a Captain of the Guard; I still consider it my duty to see that people cross through our borders safely,” she says. “But I believe that I gave you a promise. Trust me when I say that I intend to keep it.” She brushes Kíli's bruised knuckles fondly with her thumb, as she whispers, “ _Sevog i veleth nîn.”_

Gandalf seems to suffer an unexpected coughing fit. Meanwhile Bilbo is locked in a fierce staring competition with the cart’s wheel, the tips of his ears turning red with effort.

While Thorin can be sure that Kíli has no idea what any of the words actually mean, the two of them already seem to have a language of their own. Witnessing the wordless exchange, Thorin undergoes a small revelation that leaves him with a cold feeling inside his chest. _According to ancient dwarf laws, there is no love that isn’t sacred,_ his mother once told him, _not when it is willingly given by one and gladly accepted by the other_. It happens all too rarely that one of their race should give his or her heart to another, so when two people find love, it isn’t anyone’s place to judge it, not matter how bizarre they might find it.

It's what makes Thorin avert his eyes at last. When he had thought that he would give Kíli anything for the sheer reason of seeing him alive, even if it meant being courteous to an Elf, never in his wildest dreams he expected it to be something as earthshattering as this.

The pair of them eventually reaches a mutual agreement and Tauriel only nods softly, before turning around and crossing the distance back to her horse.

When it comes his turn to say his goodbyes, Kíli finally has the sense to look a bit ashamed of himself. Thorin pulls him into a tight embrace, and in the end it is the dreadful knowledge that they won’t be seeing each other for a very long time that makes him whisper in his nephew's ear, “I make sure no harm comes to her,” even if it pains him to do so.

 

 

Once Thorin and Bilbo are finally seated in the back of the cart and Gandalf has taken his place behind the reins, Bilbo seizes the chance to say his final farewells. Standing on tiptoes, dangling almost dangerous over the side, he takes the time to invite the dwarves for tea, should they ever find themselves travelling nearby his home. As Thorin watches them wave their goodbyes he pretends to smile as well, and he nods to each of his nephews in turn with an expression that he hopes to radiate nothing but confidence.

When Gandalf smacks his lips and the cart finally jerks into motion, Thorin succumbs; whatever strength he had possessed whilst setting his things in order abandons him the instant they make their way through the gates. He knows the others are probably still standing there waving, but for the life of him he can’t turn around to face them. When they clamber over the makeshift bridge, he keeps telling himself, over and over again, that this is right - that it is all for the best. He had been ready to give his life so that his people could live free of Azog’s terror, so as far as sacrifices go, this hardly pales in comparison.

Only when he can be absolutely sure that they are far enough not to be seen, Thorin does look back. The first time the dragon had forced them to flee there simply hadn’t been the time. Now, he drinks in the sight of the retreating gates with the desperation of a man drowning, armed with the sinking knowledge that it is unlikely that he will ever see them again except in his darkest dreams.  

In a way Smaug has driven him from his home not once, but twice. Both of those times, he has allowed it to happen. Now, Erebor will prevail and so does the line of Durin, but as for him -

Thorin doesn’t notice that he has started to shake uncontrollably, not until a small hand lands on his shoulder. When he turns to look sideways at Bilbo, Thorin finds his own vision clouded by something else than his mere bad eye can manage.

Neither of them speaks. The cart’s wheels keep on turning, and before long, the gates disappear from view – yet for the longest of time, the Mountain still remains.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea how some dwarves might see Erebor’s gold as this massive memorial of sorts has been floating around the fandom for quite some time, so I take no original credit for it. Many of Richard’s musings/headcanons about Thorin’s life found their way into the text (see: glow worms, even if the context is a bit different from the original) so they might sound familiar to some. Thorin also gets to borrow one of Arwen’s lines from the Two Towers. And last but not least: the name of the fic comes from a song by The Nationals, something everyone should definitely check out.
> 
> English isn’t my first language, so if any blaring mistakes jump out, do let me know.
> 
> caragu = Khuzdul for ‘dung’, aka bullshit  
> Sevog i veleth nîn = Sindarin for ‘You have my love’.


	2. Chapter 2

During the first day and night of the journey they travel across the barren Desolation. Even without Tauriel’s aid Gandalf seems sure of the direction, so Thorin decides soon not to trouble himself with it. Instead he focuses on keeping warm against the creeping chill; the Wizard isn’t much bothered by the weather and the Elf is naturally unaffected, so it is only the constant clatter of Bilbo’s teeth that assure him that he isn’t simply imagining things. By now winter has fully taken over the lands around them, and based on the way Thorin hasn’t felt warm since the moment they left, it appears to have claimed his heart as well.

In the wilderness the stars are more notable than ever. As Thorin lays in the back of the cart, burrowed under a heavy blanket, he has little else to do but to watch as the night slowly takes over, leaving him then to admire the vast expanse of black sky stretched above him. He knows of the love and kinship the elves are prone to feel for the stars, the same way he knows that it is yet another privilege they have claimed as their own. Since dwarves prefer to live within stone walls, it is a common misbelief that they don’t appreciate anything found beyond them. But all of his kin are familiar with the tale of Durin gazing at his image in the waters of Kheled-zâram and - long before wearing a headdress made of any sort of metal - seeing his reflection crowned by the lights above, taking it as a sign. For some reason Thorin is vividly reminded of it now as he watches Bilbo, who sits perched on the tailboard, his face silhouetted by the stars. Every now and then he catches Thorin’s eye and flashes him a small smile, invisible in the dark to anyone but him.

Apart from the noises that come from their two horses, the monotonous drag of the wheels and the continuous creak of the cart are the only audible sounds. Despite his best efforts Thorin can’t stay properly awake and before long he has fallen into a fitful slumber. While he drifts in and out of dreaming, his memories of the road slowly begin to mingle, until they blur together in a way that makes his head dizzy and his chest ache beyond the actual wound. There are too many similarities between this moment and the day they were first forced to abandon Erebor, and it becomes hard not to let his mind roam in search of his lost family.

At some point Bilbo begins to hum; nothing grand, not even a proper tune with words, but the melody itself is such that Thorin finds it oddly forlorn for a hobbit song. They are, after all, a folk notoriously fond of the comforts of home - but even without hearing the words Thorin is able to recognize it as a tale of wandering.

Despite his curiosity he decides to say nothing of it, and as Bilbo continues, Thorin keeps listening with his eyes closed; and just before he finally falls properly asleep, he imagines that it is in fact Frerin’s familiar voice, drifting back to his ears from a moment years and years passed, while behind them a seemingly endless caravan of dwarves travel on, lanterns speckling the darkness like those glow worms from his childhood.

 

* * *

 

On the third day Tauriel suddenly calls their party to a halt.

“There is someone sitting at the side of the road,” she tells them, her brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t think they carry any weapons.”

Thorin sees absolutely nothing but rocks, but then again his eyesight is half ruined and even if it weren’t, it is hardly match for the Elf’s. But he keeps Orcrist at hand and gives a wordless suggestion to Bilbo to check if his small sword glows in warning. It – Sting, Thorin believes it’s called – doesn’t, so whoever the person is, it is fairly safe to assume that he or she isn’t the enemy.

As they get closer it turns out to be an old woman, the edge of her weatherworn bonnet drawn just deep enough to hide her face. Judging by the rest of her attire, she’s one of the Lake-town refugees.

Gandalf pulls the reins and eventually the cart slides to a stop. “Hello there,” he call out to the woman. “Might we be of assistance?”

“Oh dear me, how very kind of you!” a high-pitched voice squeaks back. Her face still remains hidden. “I was on my way to the next village and I only sat down here for a moment to catch my breath.”

From the corner of his eye, Thorin can see Bilbo’s frown deepening. “There aren’t any villages around here,” he states, his voice flat.

“Indeed,” Gandalf says slowly. “Well, seeing as you’re in no need of help, I guess we will be on our way –“

The old matron all but leaps towards them then, her dirty yellow nails scraping the side of the cart like some wild animal’s, while she roars with a deep baritone, _“NO!”_

Noticing her mistake, she tries to explain, her voice back to near sing-song, “What I meant to say was, that if it isn’t too much trouble for you good sires, then how about a sip of water for an old woman – or perhaps a loaf of bread…“

Tauriel has now dropped down from the saddle and comes walking towards the hunched figure. “It is clear from your complexion that you haven’t eaten in a while,” she starts to say. Thorin has already learned that she always talks like nothing fazes her, but this time there is a more dangerous undertone to her voice. “How about we loosen that corset of yours a little, for you to better catch your breath?”

Before anyone has the chance to protest, the flash of her knife splits the air.

What comes spilling out is a fountain of gold coins. The woman’s bosom empties until there is nothing left of it, leaving the fabric lapping sadly in the wind like a ruined sail.

“ _Oi_ , was that really necessary?!” the man called Alfrid demands angrily, finally discarding the rest of the disguise. He lifts his chin to glare at them with his beady eyes. “What are you lot doing out here anyway? I thought you –“ he points his bony finger at Thorin - “were supposed to rule under the Mountain. Or did someone finally have the sense to kick you out?”

For once, Gandalf has a sensible answer to give. “I lack to see how that is any business of yours.”

“Fine, suit yourselves then,” Alfrid scoffs. “But before you get any funny ideas, I should say that this gold isn’t yours – found it fair and square I did, each penny. Nearly cost me my neck!”

Thorin wonders if he should point out that despite whatever place it was found, the gold still originates from Erebor and that anyone with eyes (even he, who only has the one) can see the dwarvish runes marked around the coins’ edges.

What he does instead is turn to Gandalf. “How much water and food do we have left?” he asks.

“Enough to spare him some,” the Wizard answers. Then he adds, almost as an afterthought, “Should you wish to do so, of course.”

Alfrid hardly listens to them anymore. He has plucked the bonnet from his head and is currently busy crawling on the ground, collecting most of the gold in it. The road is soggy with mud and snow, and Thorin watches how the white underskirt drags in the dirt, getting filthier each minute the man spends on his knees as he chases after the coins.

Swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat, Thorin nods. “I do.”

Meanwhile, the Elf is naturally outraged by his decision. “He showed no such mercy when the city was burning! A boat brimming with nothing but gold and yet I saw him pushing people overboard, keeping them at bay with airs when they tried to get out of the water!”

Alfrid’s head finally snaps up in offense. “Well _excuse me_ , Red, but you weren’t exactly fishing them out yourself!”

“Enough!” Thorin roars. Both of them fall silent at once, even if they keep glaring at each other still, perfect examples of the heartlessness of elves and the fickleness of men. He shakes his head and the image disappears. “Give the man his food and water and be done with it. We have no time to waste on the likes of him.”

Once Bilbo has given Alfrid what he needs and the man all but snatched them from his hands, they prepare to drive on. As the do, Thorin leans over the cart’s side to address him one more time.

“You won’t last long out here in this weather. I suggest that you head back to Dale and try your luck with the Bargeman – he seems to have a habit of taking kindly to scum,” he says, thinking of Thranduil.

Perhaps he thinks a little of himself as well.

 

When they start to drive away Thorin still lingers near the tailboard, keeping an eye on Alfrid until the man is nothing more than a black smudge in the distance. Once he finally turns around, he finds Bilbo looking at him just as keenly.

“That was very nice of you,” he starts, while Thorin slowly maneuvers himself back into a sitting position with a grunt, his injury reminding him of its existence.

“My actions have already ended too many lives as it is. His may not be worth much, but –“

“- you felt sorry for him,” Bilbo quietly finishes for him. “It’s alright. I understand.”

“You do?” Thorin can’t quite mask the dread in his voice; he thought he was the only one to see his reflection in that pitiful creature, a nightmarish vision that could have been fulfilled yet again had he decided to linger in the Mountain. He doesn’t dare to think what it might mean that it was so easy for Bilbo as well to call out the similarity.

Bilbo nods and looks away, his nose twitching in a way that usually means that he’s thinking about something particular. When he slips his hands inside his pockets, Thorin can only assume that he does it to warm them; despite the fact that he’s now wearing the purplish blanket Bofur and Bifur gave him as a makeshift cloak, he shivers noticeably. An irrational thought has Thorin desperately hoping that he could warm those hands for him.

For all his jovial nature, Thorin often finds Bilbo and his moods to be a complete mystery to him. He acts kindly towards all he meets, but rarely shares a real laugh with anyone, and the only things to genuinely pique his interest are often so remarkably ordinary to Thorin that it’s hard for him to figure out what precisely makes them so captivating. It was the first thing about Bilbo that had made Thorin understand that he wasn’t like anyone he had ever met, and over time he came to mean that in the best possible way.

As it was, it had taken him some time to notice that Bilbo really wasn’t in habit of touching other people. During the journey Thorin had observed that despite his otherwise friendly manner, he wasn’t as generous when it came to physical shows of affection. It had made it seem all the more peculiar, then, for him to learn how different Bilbo’s behavior became when the two of them were involved. At all times Bilbo was hovering so close that it would have taken but the barest of efforts for Thorin to reach out and lace their fingers together, and he had long since grown accustomed to him brushing past with their shoulders touching.

Over time Thorin had started to take like-minded liberties, answering with casual touches of his own and being reassured when Bilbo hadn’t appeared bothered by them. Often his hand would stray to seek out the crook of his elbow, or venture to rest on the small of his back. During moments when words failed between them, Thorin liked to think that at least touch came effortlessly.

All that had been before. What had once been a wordless agreement, now feels like a stolen liberty. In his madness he had threatened not only Dwalin but Bilbo as well, and now, every time that Thorin reaches out to touch him, it reminds him of it. He desperately wants to ask for Bilbo’s permission, but since he hadn’t needed it before, he has no idea how to form the right sort of question. Perhaps it would be easier if Thorin even knew what exactly it is that he's asking of him in the first place.

Nowadays he rather waits for Bilbo to touch him first. So far he has only done it right after they left Erebor, even if the space they share in the back of the cart is barely big enough for two.

Back in the moment, Thorin searches through his things and manages to find a spare cloak that he then hands out to Bilbo, gesturing at his shivering feet.

After a moment’s consideration Bilbo finally takes it, but instead of covering only himself with it he spreads it across both of their feet; and although he says nothing about it, Thorin can soon feel him tucking his bare toes in the nook between his own booted feet.

 

* * *

 

Once they finally reach Mirkwood it becomes apparent that Thorin’s hatred towards the wretched forest has only grown since the last time they were here. The poor excuse of a road is paved with slippery tiles and every now and then roots have grown over it, causing the cart’s frame to rattle dangerously as its wheels mount over them. Thorin can only stand it for so long, and when a loose pebble nearly sends the whole cart crashing down the hill into the underbrush below, he decides it’s best for all included if they just walk for the time being. Already he can feel his body growing weary by the mere idea of a long trek, but Gandalf at least keeps a slow enough pace, and so they travel on in the unnatural twilight, blocked away from the sun and the outside world by the web of branches above.

Once or twice the forest tries to lull them under its spell. What Tauriel does then can’t be properly put into words; Thorin would say that she speaks to the trees, calming them down the same way she does to their horses whenever they grow restless as well. She walks ahead of the group with her steed by her side and makes sure that the road stays where it should. Along the way stray vines reach towards her as if to strangle her, only for her to merely stroke them fondly with her hand, and not for the first time Thorin finds himself wondering what exactly Kíli sees in this woman, who by the looks of it has more in common with squirrel than a dwarf. She may have his younger nephew bewitched, but Thorin is still a long way from liking her, even if some of that is simply because it feels gratifying to despise someone else than himself for a change.

There is nothing more he wants than to get away from the woods as swiftly as possible, but eventually Thorin has to admit that the pain in his chest is only getting worse by each step. Luckily Gandalf makes them stop soon enough, and Tauriel finds them a small clearing where they can set up their camp for the night. There still isn’t that much space, so in the end they maneuver the cart under a steady looking tree and set their bedrolls beside it.

For the sake of not wanting to draw too much attention to themselves, they decide against making a fire. Supper for the day consists of bread and preserved meat; Thorin hardly eats any of the latter, its overly salted flavor instantly causing a flood of stomach-turning memories from the early months of their first exile, when they were forced to make do on long treks, often with catastrophic results.

Bilbo on the other hand gulps down his own proportion without any complaint, but he does watch their surroundings with clear uneasiness.

“I still don’t understand how anyone can actually live here. Sorry,” he adds quickly, when he catches the Elf looking at him. “Don’t get me wrong, I quite like trees, only these ones don’t seem too friendly.”

“The forest wasn’t always like this,” Tauriel says quietly. Her tone turns wistful as she continues, “I still remember a time when it was filled with light and life. There were flowers the like of which I have never seen anywhere else, and colorful birds, singing from dawn till dusk.”

“Then what happened?”

Thorin sees her sharing a brief look with Gandalf before answering. “No one knows for sure. I can only say that little by little, darkness found a way into it – and into our hearts. We weren’t always so cautious and cruel in our ways, and it was something I had hoped to remind my king of.”

“If this place and its people are your allies,” Thorin puts in, “then why do you keep leading us like we’re once again trespassing?”

For all her allegedly confident manner, she can’t fool him. Her shoulders are constantly set in a tense line and there is a hint of fear in her eye every time a branch snaps loudly in the distance, both of which aren’t something one might expect from a person eager to visit her home.

Tauriel seems both surprised and annoyed by his observation, but in the end she doesn’t bother denying it. “I’m not entirely sure if I’m still welcome here,” she tells him, like she’s letting him in on a secret. Perhaps she is. “Lord Thranduil banished me from his halls, but he wasn’t clear if I were to keep away from the woods as well.”

Thorin doesn’t ask on what grounds she was banished, since he can already guess. What does surprise him is the fact that they both seem to have been forced into exile. The idea of having that particular thing in common with someone else - an _elf_ no less –is instantly enough to make him uncomfortable.

“So coming back was a calculated risk.“ When she nods, Thorin has to ask, “What do you think would happen if we were to run into your king right now?”

Tauriel’s lips form the barest hint of a smirk. “I guess I’m counting on that he would be more opposed to seeing _you_ in his kingdom.”

On Thorin’s right, Bilbo lifts his hand to cover up a small cough.

 

Now that Thorin knows Tauriel had something personal to gain by coming along, the worst of the humiliation that was caused by her seeing him in his current condition begins to wear off. But no matter how reasonable her excuse had sounded, it still doesn’t explain the first thing about her or why she would risk leading a group of well-known fugitives through Thranduil’s lands when she could have returned just as easily by herself. Over the course of the road, Thorin feels compelled to needle her for an honest answer.

“First you save my sister-sons from the dragon, then you wish to aide me in my exile,” he lists. “Tell me, are you singlehandedly trying to undo all the past mistakes of your kin?”

The Elf blinks at him, momentarily offended, but it only lasts for the moment before the insolent smirk returns. “Why?” she asks, all faux-seriousness. “Are you trying to say that it's working?”

As he pushes past her, Thorin doesn’t even bother with an answer.

 

Gandalf doesn’t think it would be wise for them to hunt for food, but that doesn’t mean that Thorin stops taking care of his weapons. It’s while cleaning Orcrist and his knives that his mind goes blissfully quiet. With him he also has some arrows and a masterfully crafted bow he found in Erebor, the same kind he first learned to shoot with as a boy. From time to time he catches even the Elf looking at them longingly.

Eventually, boredom gets the better of him.

“I thought all elves carried bows,” Thorin says as conversationally as he can manage. And then, when it becomes apparent that his prompting isn’t going to be enough, “What happened to yours?”

Tauriel’s hand ghosts protectively over her knives, like she thinks that by acknowledging their existence she can somehow cover for what is clearly missing.  “I lost it,” she finally admits stiffly.

“ _Lost?_ What kind of a warrior loses her weapons?”

Until now there had been a clear lack of emotion in her voice, but this time her eyes flash as frustration sparks behind them. “One who dares to challenge her king over a handful of dwarves,” she hisses, and stalks away.

Later when he and Bilbo are getting ready to rest, Thorin finds himself asking him if he knows anything about the matter of her missing bow.

“Mm, yes, I believe Thranduil did something of the sort,” Bilbo admits, his nose wrinkling in disapproval.

As much as his clear distaste towards that particular elf warms Thorin’s heart, his words only raise more questions. “ _He_ did something to it?”

“As I recall, he thought it too dangerous to send someone to Ravenhill to warn you. Tauriel disagreed with him quite rudely, so he cut her bow in half.”

On the other side of the camp Tauriel is making a good impression of pretending that she isn’t hearing every word they say with those sharp ears of hers. Thorin watches her as she slowly circles further away, crossing her arms challengingly while she stares into the hostile darkness of the woods around them.

After Bilbo has fallen asleep, Thorin gets back up on his feet and quietly makes his way over to her. She still stands near the tree line and looks momentarily startled to find him appearing by her side.

“Do you keep seeing it as well?” Thorin asks her in a low voice. When Tauriel raises her brows, he clarifies, “The white stag.”

Hesitantly, her eyes gone dark, she nods.

What Thorin hasn’t mentioned to anyone is that ever since the moment they re-entered the forest, he has been catching glimpses of this pale ephemeral shape lurking between the trees. At first he had blamed his injured eye and thought nothing of it, but the longer they had stayed in the woods, the surer he had become of what he was seeing. Some weeks before he had shot at the stag across the enchanted river, a clear shot, yet for some unexplainable reason his arrow hadn’t found its mark; and now the stag that should be dead haunts his steps like a mistake incarnate, constantly reminding him of all his other failures.

But after her confirmation, it becomes clear to him that the specter’s true strength lies in whatever power they decide to give it.

“My people say that it is the spirit of the forest,” Tauriel says, her voice barely above a whisper. “On my patrols it used to approach me quite often, but now, it keeps its distance. It is almost as if it finds me threatening – an outsider.”

Her sense of betrayal is so tangible that for the first time Thorin can understand her perfectly. Because of it, it’s on the tip of his tongue to point out that maybe there is another reason besides fear for the sudden distance. If what Tauriel has told them is true, then even Thorin can see that everything she has done she did for the sake of helping and for that, the forest certainly owes her.  Perhaps the stag keeps away, not because it is frightened of her, but because it feels ashamed for how her actions have been rewarded by the Lord of the Woods.

If so, then it is a fate Thorin has no intention to share.

 

On the day they finally reach the edge of the forest, Thorin watches from a safe distance as Gandalf and Bilbo say their farewells to Tauriel. He waits until both of them have mostly turned their attention elsewhere before he approaches her in turn.

Under the Elf’s astonished eyes, Thorin hands her the bow and a quiver with arrows.

“Here. I don’t think there’s much hunting to be done in the Shire, whereas in Erebor people might go hungry if there isn’t someone there who knows the lands and has the skill.” He doesn’t say that with his eyesight being what it is, it might even be that he has lost it himself. “It’s different from your last bow, but if you have any trouble with it I’m sure Kíli will help you.”

That finally manages to swipe the eternal smirk clear off her face. In dismay, she starts, “I can’t –“, but Thorin cuts her off by placing his hand on Orcrist’s hilt.

“It is a fair trade,” he reminds her. “A weapon of your kin for one made by mine.”

She still seems hesitant, but eventually she nods and accepts the gift. Thorin watches how her delicate fingers test the strength of the string, before reaching to brush across the raven feathers of the fletching. “I was always taught that dwarves are nothing but selfish and greedy,” she says in a hushed tone, her eyes never leaving the things she has in her hands, “yet all your family ever seems to do is give away the things that matter the most.”

There was a time not so long ago when Thorin would have thought that she means to insult him. But somewhere along the way thing have shifted, and now he can’t be sure if what she’s talking about has to do the bow, or everything that Kíli has decided to give her.

It doesn’t occur to Thorin until he’s watching her disappear back into the forest, that it is entirely possible that she was referring to him as well.

 

* * *

 

The last time they were at Beorn’s the air itself had been heavy with ominous dread, an orc pack snapping at their heels and only the prospect of entering the unwelcoming premises of Mirkwood waiting ahead. Now the circumstances of their visit couldn’t be more different, yet when after two days of travelling the cart finally trudges through the gate in the tall hedge, Thorin can feel a different sort of trepidation taking hold of him.

Here the weather is milder and this time so is their host, like the chance to let his paws soak in orc-blood has somehow managed to lift his spirits. Beorn wears his human skin as he welcomes their horse with an apple in hand and only glowers slightly at the three of them.

“The wizard and the halfling I knew to expect,” he says in a way of greeting, “but I see you have brought a dwarf as well.”

“Yes, but just the one this time,” Gandalf rattles away airily, as he descends from the cart. “I’m sure you remember Thorin from our last visit.”

Beorn’s eyes narrow as his gaze nails Thorin to the spot. “Before I left the battlefield, they told me you were the one to kill the Defiler,” he growls.

Azog isn’t counted amongst the topics Thorin feels ready to discuss with anyone, nor are any of the things that took place on Ravenhill. But something tells him that Beorn isn’t really asking about either.

“That scum finally paid for what he did to my family,” Thorin confirms. He catches a glimpse of the rusted shackle around the man’s wrist and is quick to add, lowering his voice as he does, “And to yours as well.”

While Gandalf is now positively beaming at him, Beorn only keeps sizing him up with those dark eyes of his. But finally a brief smile graces his lips, the grin nothing short of predatory. The man inclines his head gravelly and Thorin repeats the gesture, while next to him Bilbo lets out the breath he appeared to have been holding.

Once they get inside a modest lunch follows. Over dishes filled with different kinds of nuts and cheeses, Bilbo takes time to stock his plate before he finally inquires, “Now that we are here, do you have any idea how we’re supposed to get across the mountains?”

Thorin simply raises his brows at Gandalf, who’s currently taking his time in packing his pipe. “Yes – several, actually,” the Wizard delivers, almost smugly. “But before we come to it, I think we have earned a bit of a rest and by Beorn’s leave we’ll have it here.”

At this point Thorin isn’t that surprised to discover that once again, his tone leaves no room for argument.

 

They end up staying for a week. During that time it becomes clear that like him, Beorn isn’t that keen on sleeping and neither is the Bear. What usually stirs Thorin awake from his fitful rest in the dead of the night is the padding of heavy feet outside, as the master of the house leaves to perform his nightly rounds. When Thorin can hear him return at sunrise, he waits courteously for a few moments more before getting up and joining Beorn in the kitchen, where they continue to sit in shared silence until the others wake as well. What transpires between them during those early hours is new; he wouldn’t exactly call it camaraderie, but if there is another word for it, then Thorin is yet to discover it.

Based on the few things he has told them about his past, Thorin assumes that Beorn was a skin-changer by birth. But sometimes he finds himself looking at the shackle and the scars marring the man’s body and can’t help but to feel that it was actually something that was done to him during his imprisonment; that little by little the orcs stripped him from his human flesh and in order to survive that he was forced to become something different - a beast of bottomless rage, its bones as hard as stone and claws sharp enough to leave a dent in the darkness itself. Now Beorn is a free man and seemingly at peace, yet the beast still lingers as an irredeemable part of him. And since there are days when Thorin still wakes with his fingers curled around the ghost of his old shield, he likes to think that he knows something about such transformation, of how hard it is to reconcile between the person you were and the one you had no choice but to become.

Sometimes when he feels up for it, Thorin walks around the farm, careful not to disturb its many residents. The pony he once rode on to Mirkwood comes nosing at his pockets, and there are countless ducks waddling about and pigs the size of those barrels they escaped in. One afternoon Bilbo shows him a basketful of eggs he collected from the chickens and they gleam in the sunlight like the biggest and whitest pearls imaginable. As he marvels them, a stray thought has Thorin wondering whether this is his first taste of what his life will become once they reach the Shire, and suddenly the task of meeting Bilbo’s smile with his own turns into an effort. The expression on Bilbo’s face doesn’t exactly falter when it gets confronted by his lack of enthusiasm, but from that point on if he makes such discoveries, Thorin doesn’t become privy of them.

Beorn’s home is a mirage come to life, a peaceful oasis in the middle of a treacherous wilderness, and still Thorin feels as if there is something missing. Being so unhappy in a place so beautiful seems wrong, yet he can’t shake none of it; not the heaviness that sits on his shoulders like an ill-fitted coat, or the longing for unattainable things that seeks to tear his heart in two. Once or twice he finds himself turning around with the intention of complaining about something to Dwalin or Balin, and when it strikes, the reality of their absence hurts like being stabbed all over again. Slowly his physical wounds heal and his vision starts to get better, but his spirit remains weary and restless, like a long-abandoned forge that sometimes still dreams of fire.

 

On what later becomes known as their last night as Beorn’s guests, Thorin finds himself drifting aimlessly around the huge house, mostly looking at the many wooden carvings on the walls. In the kitchen Beorn and Gandalf are sitting around the table, talking quietly with their greying heads bent close together. Maybe it is the sheer size of the furniture that does it, but Thorin suddenly feels like a child shut out of an adult conversation. As they continue they pay no attention to him and Thorin decides to take it as his cue to head further into the house.

Eventually he comes across Bilbo, who’s currently frowning at a peculiar cow with a pair of massive horns and a long pelt of ginger-colored fur. “I don’t think I have ever seen animals as big as these,” he says, before looking sideways at Thorin. “You don’t seem too troubled by them though.”

Thorin lifts one shoulder in a modest shrug. “I once fitted shoes for horses in a village near Greenway. After a while it became tiresome to live in the constant fear of being accidentally stomped to death, so I got accustomed to them.”

“That might explain why you thought it would be a good idea to slander a dragon to its face,” Bilbo mutters, but with the barest hint of a smile.

Leaving the cows behind, they navigate between the rest of the animals until they find a vacant spot far enough from any of the stalls. Bilbo curls in the hay with a happy sigh, and for a fleeting moment Thorin allows himself to imagine that it is still the Company’s first night here and somewhere across the vast wilderness Erebor is yet waiting for them.

The fantasy doesn’t last very long. When Bilbo complains that something is digging into his back and it turns out to be an enormous pinecone buried deep in the haystack, Thorin is suddenly reminded of something he would rather have forgotten entirely.

In the end, he still has to know for sure.

“Do you still have it - the acorn?” When Bilbo confirms it, Thorin finds himself asking, “Now that we are here, have you considered picking another one?”

Bilbo has started to toss the pinecone from one hand to another, but now his movements pause. “Why would I?” he asks, frowning.

Thorin thinks about his odd vision, or rather what he can still remember of it; how he had watched the seed crumble into ruined nothingness on Bilbo’s palm. “In case the one you have doesn’t grow. Trees tend to do that sometimes.”

“And how would you know? Not many trees grow inside mountains,” Bilbo teases, and although his tone seems light, Thorin notices that certain sharpness has now crept into it.

“Still, it seems odd to put such faith in just one acorn, when you can easily find another.”

“There isn’t anything wrong with it!” Bilbo snaps all of a sudden. His hands squeeze into a fists and the pinecone drops to the ground, rolling away. “I’m not going to start hoarding them like some greedy squirrel just because you seem to think -“

Thorin watches his face fall the minute he notices his mistake. ”I mean…” Bilbo’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly, until finally he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. Bad choice of words.”

“No offence was taken,” Thorin offers quietly.

“And believe me, none was meant. But I can’t take it back now, can I?” Bilbo huffs in exasperation. Before Thorin can even hope to answer, he presses on. “Since I’ve already gone and mucked it up, I guess there’s something I have been meaning to say to you and it just occurred to me that I still haven’t.” Clearly bracing himself for something, Bilbo blurts, “I think it was very brave, that thing you did.”

Thorin blinks in surprise. As much as the praise jars him, he also has trouble following Bilbo’s trail of thought. “You mean facing Azog?”

“No. I mean yes, that too. Obviously. But I was actually speaking about the decision to leave the Mountain. Erebor was your home – _is_ your home. And to get it back, only to lose it again so soon after…”

“The choice to leave was mine.” Thorin doesn’t know why he needs to point it out; it isn’t even entirely true, since the sickness had all but forced his hand.

Bilbo simply nods. “Exactly. No one made you pack up and leave – it was _you_ who thought it would be bad for everyone if you stayed, even if the idea of leaving for the second time must have been horrible. I imagine not very many people would be ready to make that kind of a sacrifice.”

Behind Bilbo’s head is a pillar carved full of intricate images that circle his profile like a crown of roses. While his eyes keep straying nervously to it, Thorin knows that he should return the compliment, his mind now busy in search through all the scenarios where Bilbo has proved his exceptional character.  Only a handful of memories in and he already understands how futile the whole exercise truly is. There are simply too many for him to choose from, and what ultimately comes to mind is either too insufficient or the very opposite. Part of Thorin also fears that if he starts down that path, he isn’t able to stop himself in time. In the end, it leaves him with absolutely nothing to say.

Bilbo soon learns not to wait for an answer. “Anyway, forget that I said anything. It was just something that I thought was worth mentioning, that’s all.” He gives what is clearly an exaggerated yawn and stands up to stretch his back. “Now if you don’t mind, I think I’m off to bed.”

“Goodnight,” Thorin finally manages, and Bilbo flashes him a fleeting smile as he goes, disappearing back to the far-east corner of the room where he normally sleeps.

For a long time Thorin stays seated in the hay, while his brain is busy turning over Bilbo’s previous words. Now he can see the rest of the pillar beneath the rose carvings and is met with the disapproving face of a bear, with yellow tracks of beeswax frozen upon its wooden cheeks, and eyes that stare at him as if in hollow accuse.

 

In the next morning, Thorin wakes from his restless dreams as a familiar screech pierces the air. He makes his way outside and comes down the front steps just in time to see a brood of terrified chickens fleeing to safety, as three enormous eagles land in front of the house. The sight of them suddenly stirs some unfavorable memories, and Bilbo - who has just appeared beside him, still blinking sleep from his eyes – seems to think so too, if the deep frown creasing his forehead is anything to go by.

Naturally Gandalf has no such reservations and he greets each of the identical birds by name. Even before he turns around to explain it, Thorin has already figured out that what they are currently looking at is the Wizard’s brilliant solution for the question Bilbo had proposed on their very first day here.

And - as if the means of their transport weren’t already enough to leave him sour – then there is the destination itself to consider. “They have agreed to take us as far as the High Moor. From there, Rivendell is only a few days’ march away,” Gandalf announces happily, clearly turning a blind eye to the scowl Thorin gives him in return.

In his lifetime Thorin has ridden all sorts of ponies and sometimes even horses, rams and boars, and one memorable time - a barrel in a wild river. After all that, riding an eagle shouldn’t be that much of a challenge.  Bilbo, meanwhile, is clearly having disagreeing notions about the matter.

“You have done it twice already,” Thorin reminds him, when they are collecting their things and getting ready to leave. “Surely that makes you the expert.”

He actually means it as a compliment, but Bilbo doesn’t seem to see it that way.

“And how would you know? May I remind you that both of those times you were actually unconscious, while I was stuck up there for who knows how long, thinking…“ Bilbo doesn’t finish the sentence right away and while he waits to hear the rest of it, Thorin can feel his pulse throbbing in his ears. “Thinking how awfully high it would be for me to fall from,” Bilbo finally says, rubbing the back of his ear.

In the silence that follows, Thorin looks from him to the modest pile of things they are to take with them, and then again at Bilbo. They have three eagles at their disposal and there are also three of them, but both the excuse and the failure of last night make him brave. “You can hold onto me if you think it helps.”

Bilbo makes a noncommittal sound that almost has Thorin wishing he hadn’t offered. But in the next moment he’s already saying, “Well alright, as long as you’re sure that you don’t mind me crushing you.”

What Thorin means to reply is, _You can’t._ But what comes out instead is the honest truth. “You wouldn’t.”

 

Sometime later Bilbo is seated behind him on one of the eagles’ back, his small fingers wrapped gingerly around Thorin’s belt for support. It brings them close enough that Thorin can feel his chest pressing against his back and he tries to focus on that contact in order to keep calm, mesmerized by the feeling of their lungs working as if in tandem. Far down below there is a sea of snow-covered mountaintops gliding past in swift speed, and although Thorin knows that his spirit should soar by the mere sight of them, it isn’t happening. The perspective is all wrong, the air too thin for him to breath properly. No dwarf should ever be this high up.

He struggles to be heard as he shouts, “I’m sorry I doubted your word!”

It takes a moment for Bilbo to understand what he means by it, but when he does, his reaction is instant. “See, I told you! This is awful! Absolutely terrible!”

But above the rush of air his voice sounds almost giddy with laughter, his chest rattling joyfully against Thorin’s spine like the snare of a small drum.

 

* * *

 

As promised, the eagles eventually leave them on a windy hilltop at High Moors. The fact that they were forced to leave their cart at Beorn’s means that they have a few days’ walk ahead of them, and as they begin their hike across the frosty highlands Thorin soon learns that the novelty of having both of his feet back on solid ground is even quicker to disappear than his momentarily happiness.

The prospect of meeting elves has never been a cause of great joy for him, so perhaps Thorin should have predicted that heading towards Rivendell once more proves to be the mightiest trial yet. After two days of walking Gandalf coaches the three of them expertly through the opening of one of the many secret pathways and they begin their slow descent into the hidden valley. The path leading there is even narrower than both of the ones they took on their way over, like nature’s own bottleneck designed to cause the feeling of slow suffocation. By the time the surrounding foothills finally release them from their arms and they look upon the breathtaking view of the valley below, Thorin can already sense that there is a storm brewing beneath his ribs, howling to be let loose.

Once they arrive in the city they get told that Lord Elrond is indisposed, as his messenger makes it clear that his lordship is currently in Lórien. Gandalf claims that he’s merely visiting his daughter who lives there, and even if the reason is something that Thorin doubts, knowing how fond elves usually are of the confines of their own kingdoms (much to the general satisfaction of dwarves), he is anything but bothered by the absence of their host. The elves let them stay all the same and they are show to their rooms, all of which have balconies attached to them.

Even Gandalf, well accustomed to loitering around in countless kingdoms of others (often uninvited) seems captivated by the view that opens from the veranda. There are few wrinkles less on his forehead when he basks in the light of the setting sun.

“The Last Homely House East of the Sea,” the Wizard recites, as if he’s reading it from some placate invisible to Thorin’s eye. “I know I made it seem like Lord Elrond’s skills lie in reading maps, but he’s also a great healer. If he were here, I would advise you to seek his counsel. Now we just have to be content with whatever comfort Rivendell itself can offer you.”

The idea of him seeking the help of an elf in a matter such as this is not only ludicrous, but borderline offensive. Thorin hopes that his voice tells as much, when he says, “If you think that my heart shall find rest here then you are gravely mistaken.”

“Yes,” Gandalf sighs, in what seems to be a rather deliberate manner; Thorin follows the line of his gaze and is surprised to discover that what he’s looking at is actually Bilbo. He’s standing on the street below, completely unaware of being observed as he gazes wistfully upwards, past the rooftops and towards the poor excuses of mountains. “It appears so.”

 

Like someone who wishes to tame a wild horse with enough time, the Wizard seems adamant that they linger for days to come. Meanwhile Thorin burns with the need to leave, but what eventually keeps him from putting that plan into action is that he doesn’t risk presenting it to Bilbo, more than a little afraid that he might wish to stay as well.

On their last visit they hadn’t had the time for a full tour and now Bilbo wants to see everything there is, from the great libraries to the city’s many gardens. At first he takes the time to ask Thorin to join him, but once he declines the offer one too many times Bilbo stops bothering with the invitations and ventures out by himself, seemingly under the impression that Thorin’s unwillingness to explore is only due to his age-old grudge towards of the elves.

Bilbo’s sudden absence leaves him with too much time to spend in the company of his own splintered thoughts, as he prowls around the confines of his room with the desperation of a caged beast. There is a great river running through the valley, and the sound of its roaring waters grinding tirelessly against the rocks in the deep like cogs in machinery is something that starts to play on Thorin’s nerves the longer they stay. He doubts that the elves are even aware of the noise, as deaf as they generally tend to be to the laments of the stone. But he does hear it all the same and eventually the sound follows him even as he goes to sleep, his dreams becoming filled with images where the same river now flows through Erebor, washing away the gold and wearing out the ancient stone until only the bare bones of the Mountain remain. The Gallery of the Kings has fallen under water and seaweed fills the empty socket above the throne. As he stands on the edge of the highest level and looks down, all he can see is dark waves churning below, like water at the bottom of a huge well.

In the mornings Thorin wakes up gasping, his throat so dry with thirst that he feels close to choking.

 

One late evening Bilbo proves his entrepreneur spirit by obtaining a small pouch of Hobbiton pipe-weed from some rather eccentric elf who has acquired the taste for it. He appears at Thorin’s door with the pouch in one hand and a sly smile on his lips. “I traded it for the strawberries I picked from Beorn’s,” Bilbo explains to him, his grin widening as he does. “Apparently it’s still too early for them to grow here.”

He graciously offers to share his loot with Thorin, but he declines the offer once more, feeling far too anxious to relax and not wanting to waste a good leaf. But Bilbo still manages to persuade him to accompany him to a spot Thorin knows he has taken a liking to, a bench outside the library. By the time they reach it night has already fallen, but spring is slowly coming and the air is warm enough for them to sit outside.

Bilbo pulls out his pipe and begins to fill it, and watching his hands work with clear efficacy Thorin can almost forget his growing need to claw his own skin off.

The moment is naturally ruined by the sound of a distant singing. It starts as a quiet hum at first, but by the time Bilbo has managed to lit his pipe it has grown to a clear singing, even if the Elvish still means nothing to Thorin. He can see Bilbo listening to it intently, his brow faintly crinkled as if his ears are straining to hear the words better.

“I guess us coming here somehow inspired them.” Bilbo notices his confusion and explains, his tone suddenly becoming a lot more vary, “They appear to be singing in remembrance of those who died in the war.”

If there is one thing Thorin has come to learn about the place, it’s that in here they seem to have a song for every occasion and the near pathological need to prove it. “You mean in remembrance of the _elves_ that died.” And then, because even bringing it up makes the words taste like iron in his mouth, “I wasn’t aware that you speak their language.”

“Only a little bit. I didn’t say anything about it before because I knew how sensitive you dwarves can be about that sort of thing,” Bilbo huffs. “And does it matter? In any case, I think they have the right to grieve their kin, don’t you?“

Thorin knows the minute he starts to answer that what follows can lead to no good. But then the massive anger he has been keeping suppressed for days is already rolling out of him like an avalanche, seeking to bury the guilty and the innocent alike.

“They know nothing about grief in this place! We made sure of that years ago when we purged the Misty Mountains of orcs. We couldn’t get them all, but we got enough to ensure that they would never have the chance to spread this far. The happiness you see here – it was bought with the sweat and blood of dwarves!”

“You mean in the Battle of Moria?” Bilbo asks quietly.

“Ah, yes – _Moria,_ ” Thorin grimaces, all teeth, the name slipping from his lips like something rotten. “Have you ever wondered why only some of us agree to call it that? It’s because it is an Elvish name – or perhaps you already knew that, given your vast knowledge. No?” he says, when Bilbo mutely shakes his head. “It means ‘the Black Pit’. That’s what our hallowed halls are to these people – a pigsty, a chasm of despair.”

What Thorin has neglected to tell Bilbo so far, is that the feeling of witnessing him so happy in another’s kingdom surpasses his dislike of elves in its painfulness a thousand times. It would be pointless to admit that the reason why Thorin can’t stand to see him so taken aback by flimsy foreign splendor, is because he knows that there once existed a chance for Bilbo to see Erebor the way he remembers it to be, returned back to its former glory. The fact that that fate is now tragically lost because of his weak character is hardly his only regret, but by now Thorin simply has too many to keep count.

He fully expects Bilbo to be disgusted by his outburst. As it is, he simply puffs his pipe, watching Thorin with searching eyes through the veil of smoke that hangs momentarily between them. Eventually all he chooses to comment is, “That seems a bit harsh, doesn’t it?”

Thorin decides then that he can’t possibly listen to this anymore. He pushes away from his seat with a low snarl and starts to stride towards the direction of the main building. He thinks he can hear Bilbo calling after him, but it isn’t enough to stop him.

In his hurry to get away he hardly pays any attention to where his feet are taking him. He only slows down when it becomes apparent that somewhere along the way he has taken a wrong turn and thus lost the way back to his room. Currently the only bright side of the situation is that he can’t hear any singing anymore.

Thorin finds himself standing on a small courtyard that holds what seem to be a small well and a lone bench beside it. As he gets closer he discovers that the marble edges of the well are low enough for him to rest his elbows on, and for the longest of time he does just that, staring into the darkness below and watching the image of the moon being reflected on the water’s surface.

 

Eventually it is Gandalf who finds him there. Even before he comes to view Thorin recognizes him by the unmistakable sound his staff makes when it _click-click_ s against the pavement. Still, he doesn’t raise his eyes to greet him, not even when the old man maneuvers himself on the bench beside him.

“I’m glad to find you here. There is something I need to tell you,” the Wizard begins.

Thorin thinks that the very last thing he needs now is another lecture of the virtues of this blasted place. “Can it not wait until morning?” he manages to ask between gritted teeth.

“I’m afraid not,” Gandalf says in an apologetic manner. “It is about Thráin.”

Thorin tears his eyes away from the well in shock. “My father? What of him?” A flash of wild hope crosses his mind, making his heart leap to his throat. “Has he been seen again?”

Gandalf doesn’t quite shake his head, but once again the look in his eyes answers enough. “The last time I saw him, when we discussed the matter of the key, he seemed… almost reluctant about the idea of giving it away.”

Thorin is so stunned that it takes ages before he can string together a coherent thought. “You once told me that it was given to you for safekeeping.” When Gandalf nods, he asks, “The why didn’t he want for me to have it? Did he plan to use it himself?”

This time it’s Gandalf who remains quiet. On the sky a stray cloud covers the moon and briefly the shadows on his face grow longer, as the look in his eyes becomes almost haunted. But soon enough the skies clear, and when Gandalf speaks his manner is brisk if not brimming with underlying sadness. “On the contrary, I think. At that time I thought he didn’t wish to part from it because of its sheer value, but it appears that wasn’t his most pressing concern.” Leaning on his staff for support, he bents towards Thorin as he says, “The last thing your father told me was that he loves you very much. Perhaps he feared – rightfully so - what might happen to you, should you decide to enter that Mountain.”

Thorin finds that he can’t look him in the eyes anymore. His hands curl into trembling fists that are surely tight enough to hurt, yet his whole body has been turned numb by anger and grief alike. “I don’t understand. All this time you have kept this from me - _why?_ ”

“Because when we first met in Bree, you were chasing a rumor and it almost cost you your life. Frankly, I’m worried what might happen, should you be struck with the urge to continue your search for him,” Gandalf delivers. His tone gets noticeably softer as he says, his voice now barely above a whisper, ”Thráin was a dear friend to me as well. I know you would do anything to get him back, but I’m afraid it has come the time for you to accept the truth. You have to let him go, Thorin.”

Thorin almost argues that what ails him now has nothing to do with his desperate need to be reunited with his father. But at the same time he can’t deny that there isn’t a second truth that he has dreaded to admit even to himself, one that has been lurking at the edges of his consciousness on these past days that he has spent in taunting solitude; that when he had searched futilely for the Arkenstone, his frustration only growing by each passing day, it had felt like losing his father and grandfather all over again. The longing he now experiences for the family and friends he left back at Erebor is weighting on him, but it isn’t the bitter, venomous absence that only the feel of gold beneath his fingers was able to sooth. The Arkenstone was the Mountain’s heart, a holy relic – and the would-be crowning jewel of his madness. Had he become to possess it then, Thorin knows, it would have consumed him alive. And yet he still finds himself yearning after it even now, misses it the same way as he misses his father’s voice and his grandfather’s face, and the pain of it makes him understand that being cured entirely would be a lot easier if the gold-sickness was something he could despise wholeheartedly.

The same way the treasure in Erebor is both a curse and a legacy, so has his malady become interwoven with a sense of familiarity. The sickness is something that irreversibly connects him to his father and his grandfather. It is a part of them that he still carries with him wherever he goes, the invisible shackle around his wrist in the manner of Beorn’s. It becomes clear that the reason why Thorin had never needed to ask why the man wore it still was because he had known the answer all along. If he were to break that bond and turn his back on the gold forever, does it mean that he’s also turning his back on the memory of his family, no matter how twisted it has become over time?

Somewhere below the voice of the river and its rocks still seek to reach out to him; or perhaps it is the sound of his own accursed blood after all, coursing through his veins with a possessed might. For a moment longer Thorin listens to the noise’s familiar rhythm – and then he forces himself to shut it out, and the night air falls silent at once. Now all he can hear is the distant song of a nightingale and the soft rustling of leaves in the nearby trees.

As Thorin drifts back from his thoughts, he finds himself sitting on the bench beside Gandalf. Neither of them speaks anymore and so they simply watch in silence as the moon makes its slow trek across the sky, before it finally begins to fade as it disappears behind the mountaintops.

 

An entire week more passes by, until Gandalf finally makes the announcement that they are ready to move forward. The elves provide them with a new cart and a horse as well, and soon they are off on their way towards Bree.

As the cart climbs up the path, Bilbo remains uncharacteristically silent. They haven’t really spoken to each other since the unfortunate discussion, and even if Thorin doesn’t really regret any of the things he said, he at least feels somewhat bad about the manner they were spoken with. But his talk with Gandalf had left his head in such a state that even now he can still feel the aftershocks running through him, convincing him that the damage between them is already done. All he can do now is to hope for a chance to pick up the pieces.

Eventually they reach the part of the road were they would normally be allowed to catch the last proper glimpse of the city below. But today a thick veil of mist has the whole valley shrouded from view, and as they dive into the embrace of the mountains, not once can Thorin see Bilbo turning his head to look back.

 

* * *

 

Some days after they leave Rivendell, they reach the place where they encountered the trolls. Their stony figures stand in a half-circle exactly where they left them many months ago, even if the passing of time can be seen in the way moss has started to grow on them and how weeds have now claimed the clearing around their feet. When they make camp on the spot where they once laid in a pile of sacks, Bilbo even spots a sparrow’s nest in one of the trolls’ ears.

Gandalf, ever faithful to his old ways, doesn’t linger long. “I promised Radagast I would find him once we got this far. I trust that I can leave you two by yourselves for the night?”

Thorin doesn’t even bother answering, but Bilbo manages to do so for the both of them. “Just hurry back before sunrise,” he suggests dryly.

 

The next night Thorin wakes up unexpectedly once more, only to find Bilbo missing.

The late spring night is relatively warm yet his empty bedroll already feels cold to the touch. All the rest of his things are seemingly accounted for, except for his sword that Thorin knows him to carry with him at all times.

It isn’t the first time Bilbo disappears suddenly, as Thorin recalls countless times from the course of the journey when the Company had found him missing, the most memorable occasions being the Goblin Caves and then in Mirkwood. But those had been situations with dire consequences and his sudden absence a benefaction to all involved. Now there is no reason for him to disappear, and at once Thorin thinks that something must have happened – an accident, or maybe an attack –

His heart is already racing so fast, that when Bilbo suddenly steps out behind the leg of the nearest troll, Thorin nearly jumps out of his own skin.

“I only went to check on the horse,” Bilbo explains, sheepish. “I thought I heard something, but it turned out to be just a fox.”

“What if it hadn’t been one, but another troll instead?” Thorin snaps, while his heart still beats a hasty echo in his ears. “Next you time wake me first if you think you hear something strange.”

“Of course,” Bilbo offers flatly. When he turns around, he crumbles under his breath, “I swear, it’s almost like old times…”

“I can still hear you.”

“You’re supposed to hear me!” Bilbo bellows. He flops unceremoniously down on his bedroll, and in the miffed silence that follows, he rolls over and presents his back to Thorin.

Later, when Thorin lies awake and listens to the calming sound of Bilbo’s snoring, he understands that it never even crossed his mind that he might have left willingly. Even after the whole debacle with the Arkenstone, his trust in Bilbo remains unbroken – or maybe it is precisely because of that.

 

In the morning Thorin wakes before sunrise and, while Bilbo stills sleeps, gathers the required materials for the task he has in mind. Once he has found the proper piece of wood, he begins to carve.

By the time the sun has arisen fully and Gandalf rejoins them once more, he has just finished putting on the final touches. When he sees that Bilbo is awake as well, Thorin decides to wisely wait until he has finished his breakfast of bred and honey, before he walks over to him and drops something in his lap.

After staring at it in clear confusion, Bilbo lifts his eyes to meet his. “A whistle?” he says. The unexpected smile that blossoms on his face makes Thorin feel as if his insides have been momentarily replaced with nothing but air. “You made me a whistle.”

“I know for a fact that you still can’t hoot like a barn owl,” Thorin hears himself explain primly. “If you happen to ran into any trouble, you can use that to alert me.”

Bilbo stares at him for a moment longer, his eyes bright and wide in the early light of the day. Then, with the utmost care, he raises the whistle in order to place his lips on the same spot Thorin’s own were only moments before when he tested the thing.

Bilbo blows into it experimentally; the whistle lets out a high screech, much like a particular owl would, and on the other side of the camp Gandalf jolts from his slump to sit a little straighter.

 

* * *

 

One night in Bree, Thorin finally sits down to write a letter to Dís. He knows that the real reason why it has taken him so long to do so is because he has no idea where to even begin to unravel everything that has happened since the two of them last saw each other. Countless times he has dreamed about the day he could pick up the pen and write the seven simple words: _It is done. You can come home._ But now, when he finally can, there is no victory behind the words, at least not for him.

Now Thorin is supposed to tell her that his actions have made one of her sons a king and that the other can’t keep his promise to return because he has now given that promise to another. He has to tell her that it nearly wasn’t so, because he almost got them both killed. They knew the risk and still they wanted to come with him, yet nothing could have prepared them for the darkness that claimed his soul the second he entered the Mountain.

Somehow admitting to Dís of all people that it was him – not one of her sons, not anyone else from the Company – that failed, feels like the ultimate punishment. When Thorin tries to find a reason for the unexpected feeling, he understands that it is because in his eyes Dís has always been the strong one. She did something Thorin himself never managed; she looked ahead instead of looking back, has kept doing so ever since the day they first left Erebor. On the road she gave her heart to another when she married Víli in a modest tent in Dunland, and then she gave birth to two new lives and carried on even though it must have felt like hers had ended, when her husband fell along with her other brother and grandfather.

It was Dís who once told him that what makes them worthy of the title of descendants of Durin the Deathless, is that no matter what, they will endure. And since the day she was born she has done just that, and never once has Thorin thought to accuse her of giving up just because she hasn’t permitted the past to weigh her down.

So why does it feel so difficult to allow himself the same privilege?

Thorin thinks of what Gandalf told him about his father and what advice he gave him in Rivendell, and he thinks of the invisible threat that still connects him to his convoluted legacy. In the end, it is what makes him sign the letter with the words, _Lend me your strength, sister, for what I am about to do._

When he finally seals the envelope, its contents already feel more like hope than sheer repentance.

 

(Many weeks later, by the time Thorin has already forgotten about the whole letter, he finally receives a reply. _Only you can make retiring to the countryside sound so dreadful_ , Dís writes, and that is how Thorin knows with certainty that no matter what he has done, she forgives him for it.)

 

* * *

 

The closer they draw to the border of his home, the more anxious Bilbo gets. He doesn’t say so much in words, but after weeks of sitting still or laying at the back while smoking, he now prefers to sit with Gandalf on the front seat, where he still keeps fidgeting like a hound sensing its master’s return. Thorin can hardly blame him for his eagerness, still remembering all too well how he had run the Company ragged through the Desolation, the ever-nearing peak of Durin’s Day giving a valuable excuse for his own excitement to be reunited with the Mountain.

By nightfall, there are still many miles to go. Thorin can sense that Gandalf wishes to stop and make camp, but - after a brief glance in Bilbo’s direction – clearly has no heart to do so. So they push onwards, the horse’s steps guided by the light that now glows at the end of Gandalf’s staff.

It is closer to midnight when the cart rattles over what Bilbo names as the Brandywine Bridge. The windows of the keeper’s cottage remain dark as they pass it, and so, like thieves in the night, they finally arrive back in the Shire.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given how many unnecessary minutes of screen-time he already got, I was as surprised as any to see Alfrid appearing in this story. Sorry about that, y’all.
> 
> The song Bilbo hums when they first leave Erebor is meant to be the Edge of Night/Pippin’s song from RotK. Billy Boyd once told in interview that he wrote it to be something all hobbits would know even if they had forgotten the meaning behind the words, since the song was sang prior to the times of the Shire, back when they were still travelling across lands in search of a place to settle.
> 
> What Gandalf tells about Thráin & the key is based on the extended Dol Guldur scenes from DoS, a second meeting that Thorin is naturally left unaware of. The white stag of Mirkwood also features in one of those.
> 
> \+ as I initially suspected, the chapter count went up by one.


End file.
